


How Sweet the Sound

by thegraytigress



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blind Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Disability, Disabled Character, Drama, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Team as Family, Traumatic Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-06 03:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 150,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16380434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: Captain America was a hero.  He was a living legend, revered and adored and invincible.  He fought for everyone who had good in his or her heart, for anyone who believed in the worth of life and the value of freedom.  He was a shield between evil and innocence.  He stood for justice, for honor, for responsibility and integrity.  Captain America was a symbol that endured.  Captain America was hope.The truth was, though, that behind the hero was simply a man.  And men could fall._________________________A horrific accident on the battlefield leaves Steve blind and permanently injured with little hope for recovery.  Now Bucky, who's barely freed himself from his time as the Winter Soldier, is faced with a crisis he never imagined.  He has to help Steve grieve and adjust to this new life, all while proving to himself that he's worthy enough to pick up the shield and carry on in Steve's place.Part of the Captain America Big Bang 2018.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** E (for language, violence, adult situations)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Well, here is my Captain America Big Bang fic. As usual, it got way out of control. Lots of thanks to my artist, [agentcoop](https://iamagentcoop.tumblr.com/), who did some lovely drawings for this monstrosity. Extra special thanks to junker5 for helping me tremendously with everything from plotting to cheering me on to tirelessly beta-reading. Also, my deep gratitude to itstheclimb17, who was a fantastic help making sure the medical aspects in this fic (and there are a lot) are as accurate as they can be. She's an amazing resource.
> 
> I did a lot of research to try and accurately represent how blindness and limited mobility can affect a person. That being said, this is not meant to be a definitive depiction of being blind nor is it supposed to suggest how those with disabilities should feel about themselves. This is just my take on how Steve might handle the situation described in this fic. This is also a world of comic science and drama, so not everything is as realistic as it could be (and sometimes it's just not meant to be). Still, this fic involves a beloved character becoming permanently injured to the point where he can't continue as he has. If that's not something you want to read (or if that's upsetting or triggering for you), I kindly suggest you back out now.
> 
> While Steve's situation is of course the major focus of this story (and the catalyst for the plot itself), this is really Bucky's tale. I wanted to showcase Bucky coming into his own after what HYDRA did to him and discovering his voice along the way. I wanted to explore him realizing that he's still a hero and very much worthy of being something he (and everyone else) admires a great deal. This is really a story about him and about faith and hope and love and family. The title, of course, comes from "Amazing Grace" by John Newton. 
> 
> Expect a great deal of angst, a ton of hurt/comfort, a bunch of drama, and a smattering of smut :-). I really hope you enjoy reading this as much as I have writing it over the last few months. Thank you all so much!

_“Through many dangers, toils, and snares,_  
_I have already come;_  
_’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,_  
_And grace will lead me home._  
_Amazing grace!  How sweet the sound_  
_That saved a wretch like me._  
_I once was lost but now am found  
_ _Was blind but now I see.”_

**PART ONE**

 

Captain America was a hero.

He was a symbol to the country, to the world.  Yes, he wore the colors of the United States, the deep blue and crisp white and patriotic red.  The stars and stripes.  However, his purpose went far beyond representing a government and its intentions.  Often times, his meaning didn’t even align with his government.  And, yes, he was a soldier, but he didn’t fight for his government or at least not blindly for them.  What he stood for, what he _did_ , went far beyond the bounds of politics, of agendas, of any nation or its ambitions.

No, Captain America fought for _people._   For all people everywhere, no matter who or what they were or where they lived.  He fought for the weak and beaten and weary.  For the destitute, the hurt, the wronged.  For those who were struggling, who were downtrodden, who were unfortunate.  He fought for everyone who had good in his or her heart, for anyone who believed in the worth of life and the value of freedom.  He was a shield, one that was literal and figurative, between evil and innocence.  He stood for justice, for honor, for responsibility and integrity.  And he carried with him different meanings for different people, because the beauty of the ideals he represented lied in their timelessness, their extensibility and adaptability.  He was a warrior born from weakness and poverty, from frailty and simplicity.  From humble and inauspicious beginnings.  Still, with his heart rooted in compassion and nobility, his power was vast, commanding, and awe-inspiring.

Captain America had defeated evil time and time again.  He had died for this world, had sacrificed as much as any man could sacrifice.  He had defeated Nazis and insane psychopaths and invading aliens and subversive tyrants.  Without pause, doubt, or concern for himself, he bravely faced maniacs and madmen and monsters.  He led the forces of good against those that would do the world harm.  He was the one to which everyone looked: fellow soldiers, allies, and common folk.  He was the star on his chest, on his shield, an unfaltering emblem of hope when all else seemed lost.  A beacon through the darkness.  And though he was not nearly the strongest in this world of weapons and demigods and witches, in some sense _he was_ , because without him, the Avengers, this team of disparate people and personalities that protected the world, would simply fall apart.  Captain America was what held them together.

_Captain America._

A hero.  A legend, a _living_ legend, revered and adored and invincible.

The hard truth was, though, that Steve Rogers, the heart and soul behind the hero, the symbol, the shield…  Steve Rogers was simply a man.

And men could fall.

* * *

Steve fighting was a sight behold.  He was so powerful, so fluid.  He was in complete command of his serum-enhanced body, and every punch, kick, leap, and twist was so perfectly executed that you had to wonder if he wasn’t some sort of machine.  He and that shield of his seemed to be one, and he used his body like he used the shield, as if it was indestructible.  It definitely seemed to be.  He was so fast, so agile, and so powerful all at once.  And he _danced_ , to rehash a tired cliché, like every move was planned, choreographed, precise, and he never once made it seem like he didn’t know what he was doing.  He shouted simple orders with a clear voice, led with his actions as much as his words, asked for compliance and respect and you were all but desperate to give it because that was the kind of leader he was.  He did, _was_ , no less than what he asked for.  He was amazing, and seeing him on the battlefield was all kinds of incredible.

Seeing Steve like this, though?

This was fucking unbelievable, and every single time he saw it, Bucky knew he was utterly unworthy.

“Come on, Buck,” Steve groaned in his ear.  “Not gettin’ any younger here.”

Bucky chuckled and dipped his head again to suck another mark on Steve’s neck.  The flurry of them he’d created over the last couple minutes were gone already.  Price of the serum, he supposed.  All the little hickeys and love bites he liked to leave on Steve always healed as fast as he could make them.  There was a rueful nostalgia attached to that, some kind of stupid irony, that back when they were kids in Brooklyn and had had to hide their relationship, Steve’s frail body had bruised so damn easily.  A rough kiss could leave its mark, and Bucky always had to be careful to keep the evidence of what they did confined to places that could be hidden by clothes.  Steve’s chest full of baby bird bones, for example, or his skinny thighs around which Bucky had practically been able to wrap his mammoth hands (as Steve had always called them back then).

Nowadays, they were married, _married,_ and the world knew it, and they didn’t have to care one bit if anyone saw a hickey or two on either of them.  And, because God liked to do things for shits and giggles, _neither_ of them could bruise from simple things like this anymore (though not for lack of trying).  It was a damn pity.

Of course, also thanks to the serum, neither of them seemed to be aging.  Thus it was all too true when Bucky husked right back, “You ain’t gettin’ older either, so hold your horses, punk.”  Steve huffed and let go of Bucky’s shoulders, flopping back down into the pillows.  Deviously Bucky grinned, kissing the annoyed frown right off Steve’s lips.  “What’s your hurry, anyway?” he murmured after pulling away.  He trailed his lips to Steve’s jaw, which was already prickly with stubble from the day before.  “We got all day.  Something you gotta do?”

Steve grinned himself.  “Other than you?  Not particularly, no.”  He arched his hips into Bucky’s where Bucky had him pinned in the ridiculously expensive California king mattress in their ridiculously huge bedroom in the Avengers complex.  He was also surrounded by ostentatiously plush pillows and probably thousand-thread count sheets that were more like silk than cotton on your skin and blankets softer than anything Bucky had ever felt.  God, this life they lived now, in the lap of luxury with everything they could ever want right at their fingertips.  It was hard to remember the hard times they’d faced growing up (and not just because of the damage HYDRA had done to his brain).  Those difficult days of their youths, of the Depression where they’d had nothing but each other, scrounging for food, for clothes, for _heat…_   The dark moments of the war, where they’d been weary and hurt and stained with blood, huddled together, clinging to each other just for the touch of human comfort amidst a sea of death and brutality.  Those things felt like they’d been a lifetime ago.  They _were_ a lifetime ago, for all intents and purposes.  They’d gone through ice, through hellfire, through unimaginable horrors to get here, but they here they were.

And here was incredible.  Bucky still didn’t know how he’d ever come to deserve what he had now.  Two years had passed since Steve had found him in his little shithole apartment in Bucharest where he’d been living in limbo in the wake of escaping HYDRA.  The first few months after Steve had brought him here to upstate New York were a mess in Bucky’s memories.  Everything had been so twisted up inside him, a disparate and chaotic mix of the life he’d had before he’d fallen in World War II and the nightmare he’d lived as HYDRA’s prized assassin and tool of anarchy.  Steve had patiently and painstakingly helped him sort out his emerging memories, easing him through the storm as much as possible.  With Sam and Wanda’s help, with the help of _all_ the Avengers, he’d begun to heal from the trauma of seventy years spent as a prisoner in the hands of some of the cruelest captors in history.  The torture he’d endured had damaged him in so many ways, and the scars ran deep and far beyond the metal, cybernetic limb where his left arm used to be.  There were times when he’d been sure there’d be no recovery, that this man Steve thought he was could be nothing more than a ghost.  Nothing beyond a _memory,_ and not even his memory.

Steve had been persistent, though, and undaunted, no matter how many setbacks and roadblocks they found in their way.  No matter how many steps back they had to take while struggling forward, Steve was always so stubborn, so sure, even when Bucky had doubted.  Even when Bucky had pushed Steve away, had gotten lost in the programming and brainwashing and trauma so badly that he’d hurt the very people trying to save him, that he’d _hurt_ Steve himself, Steve had never lost his faith.  It was Steve more than anyone who’d saved him.

And it was Steve’s love more than anything that had brought him back from the hell in his head, that had painstakingly and with so much devotion pulled _Bucky Barnes_ out of the Winter Soldier.  Remembering Steve, the life they’d shared, the dreams they’d had, _everything_ they’d been together…  That hadn’t happened all at once.  It had come randomly, in fits and spurts and even occasionally in a flood.  Steve had taken whatever he was given, whether it was Bucky lost in grief, swept up in anger, quiet and afraid with confusion, or bitter and withdrawn in doubt and shame.  He’d taken it all, and he had never given up.

Thus, thanks to Steve (Steve argued continually that Bucky’s recovery was Bucky’s doing, something Bucky owned, but Bucky was as much of a stubborn asshole as Steve was and he knew the truth), he got himself back.  He became part of the family.  He’d expected that to be a struggle, but, surprisingly, it hadn’t been at all.  The team, even Tony, had welcomed him.  Not everyone had with opened arms, he supposed (like Tony).  But over the last year, as Bucky had really come into his own, as he’d become more and more of a permanent fixture at Steve’s side, any doubt and dissension there had been had died a quick and merciful death.  Even Tony and he were on good terms now, which wasn’t to say their relationship was perfect.  After all, under HYDRA’s control Bucky had killed Tony’s parents (a fact with which it had taken Stark some time to come to terms), and Tony had done a lot of shit that had caused the team (mostly Steve) a great deal of trouble.  But they had Steve between them.  Steve who was one of Tony’s best friends and Steve who was the love of Bucky’s life and Bucky’s husband.  Sparing Steve the pain of them bickering and battering each other all the time made for pretty compelling motivation to try to work together.

So, yes, he’d become himself again this last year.  And, yes, he’d married Steve.  Nowadays, that was not only allowed but _celebrated._   Those times in Brooklyn where they’d hidden who they were inside and been scared of how much they’d loved each other, keeping quiet in their ratty apartment with its paper-thin walls as they’d made love and whispered oaths to one another, stealing brief kisses in alleys, in cinemas, _everywhere_ they could without being seen, telegraphing dreams and desire with brief touches and knowing looks…  It seemed impossible, for all that longing and yearning and sneaking around, that they could finally have what they’d wanted: to be in love and not have to be afraid or ashamed.  For the most part, they had what they wished for.  The gold wedding band Steve proudly wore on his left ring finger told the world _exactly_ to whom he belonged.  Bucky didn’t wear his there because of what his left arm was and the symbol it always remained to him (and wearing it on his right seemed wrong), so he had it on around his neck on the chain with Steve’s dog tags.  Neither of them ever took them off.

His wedding ring and Steve’s dog tags were in fact dangling over Steve right now, Steve who was staring at him with lust-addled eyes the color of the sky and the sea and rain and waves and a million other analogies Bucky had conjured up over their years together.  He’d fallen in love with Steve the second he’d been old enough to know what love was, and he’d been his friend and protector years before that, so he’d had a great deal of time to memorize all of Steve’s features, Steve’s mannerisms and expressions and quirks.  His eyes, though, had always been and still were the most remarkable thing about him to Bucky.  Of course, deciding that was like picking a very favorite in a slew of favorites, like an ice cream lover having to designate a preferred flavor or an art aficionado having to determine which of the world’s many famous works was the most important.  It was impossible to choose.  Steve’s full lips, pink and kiss-swollen right now and turned into that little smirk of his.  Steve’s nose, just a little crooked (the serum hadn’t fixed that when it had rebuilt him from the picture of frailty to the utter epitome of human perfection).  The shape of Steve’s jaw, commanding when it was set just so yet so easily changed when Steve threw his head back in one of his huge laughs.  Steve’s thick, blond hair, which Bucky did like better in this shorter, more modern style than the floppier length of their youths.  And, of course, the rest of him.  The breadth of his shoulders that tapered into that narrow waist.  The mounds of muscles, never gaudy or meant to intimidate, like liquid strength fluidly rolling over Steve’s chest and back.  Amply proportioned pecs and abs that belied just how Steve strong really was.  The thick trunks of his thighs.  His pert ass and the bulge of his manhood poking through his boxer briefs into Bucky’s leg.  The perfection of his body and right with that the perfection of his heart and soul.

Somehow, though, out of _all_ that…  Steve’s eyes were special.  They were a line that Bucky could draw from this moment, through the last couple years, through HYDRA’s hold over him, to Captain America on a helicarrier, to a man on a bridge, to a soldier in a war, to a kid in Brooklyn.  Steve’s blue eyes in DC, deep and dark with confusion on the causeway.  Steve’s eyes in Azzano, looking down on him in horror and worry.  Steve’s eyes bright with fever back when he’d been so sick with pneumonia when they’d been boys.  Steve’s eyes alight with laughter as they’d run around the streets of their neighborhood, so alive and happy and carefree even if his asthma troubled him and his bent spine made it hard to keep up.   Steve’s eyes now, so familiar, so filled with life and love.  Despite everything that had happened to Bucky, everything HYDRA had done to him, all the torture and conditioning and brainwashing, the long hours he’d spent in the chair where they’d scorched his brain and burned his memories away…  They’d never been able to take Steve’s eyes from him.  Steve’s brilliant eyes, fiery and fierce, stunningly clear, deep with intelligence and hidden wit and so much strength.  Bravery.  Determination.  _Steve’s eyes._

And not just his eyes and how beautiful they were but how he saw the world with them.  The tiny details he caught that he wove into his sketches.  The way he reduced the most complex of situations so simply down to their core and made the right choice unfailingly.  The faith in the goodness of people he had that was shaken now, no doubt about it, but still there and still coloring everything he did.  The faith he had in Bucky.

Bucky thought it again.  He thought it every day.  He’d _never_ be worthy of that, this life he had now.  The wedding ring hanging on his neck.  Living with the Avengers and calling them his family.  Even fighting alongside Captain America.  He’d never be good enough to deserve the way Steve was looking at him right now, the way Steve had _always_ looked at him.

Well, right now Steve was looking more and more confused.  He smiled, leaned up, and took Bucky’s mouth in a tender kiss.  “Where’d you go?” he whispered into his lips, tugging him insistently back into their little nest of blankets and warm skin.

Bucky shook his head free of his thoughts.  God, getting all maudlin and waxing poetic and all that bullshit when he had Steve _like this._   “Sorry,” he whispered, giving a kiss.  “Got distracted staring at your ugly mug.”  Playfully he nipped at Steve’s lower lip.

Steve wasn’t having any teasing.  He hooked an arm around Bucky’s back and pretty firmly rolled them both.  Bucky gave a small _oomf_ when he found himself pinned into the expensive bedding now, with Steve straddling his hips.  “My ugly mug?  Where do you get off, Barnes?”

Bucky gave his best shit-eating grin.  “Hopefully right here in bed with you.  If you’d hurry the hell up.”

Steve glowered at him.  It wasn’t the least bit convincing.  Then he was grabbing at Bucky’s pajama pants and boxer briefs and hauling them off.  He stumbled off the bed with not much of the grace for which Captain America was known, and Bucky propped himself onto his elbows and laughed.  Arousal was shooting right back to his groin as he watched Steve hook his thumbs in his own boxers and divest himself of them.  Even though he’d seen Steve naked countless times, Steve in his old body and Steve in this new one that put Adonis himself to shame, it never failed to turn him on lightning quick.

Steve knew it, the little shit.  He waggled his eyebrows ridiculously, turning to give Bucky a show of his ass.  “Want something?”

“You,” Bucky said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt.  When he saw the desire settle deep into Steve in acres of rosy, flushed skin and eyes blown practically black and his own manhood practically throbbing before Bucky’s eyes he was so hard, he added, “To stop being a little punk.  But that ain’t never gonna happen, so I should probably throw in the towel on waiting.”

“I’m throwin’ in the towel on waitin’,” Steve said breathlessly.  He’d fished in the bedside table drawer for the tube of lubricant, and then he was climbing back into bed, tossing his prize to the mattress beside Bucky’s hip as he straddled him again.  The kiss he gave him was rough, insistent, driving his tongue into Bucky’s mouth.  Bucky gave as good as he took, though, fisting Steve’s hair to keep him close as he devoured with way more hunger than finesse.  He could feel his erection jabbing into Steve’s inner thigh, smearing wetness, and with a fever of need he grabbed for Steve’s hips to draw him where he wanted him.

But Steve snatched his hands.  “Nope.  You had your chance.”  Smirking, he pushed Bucky’s wrists into the pillows.  “So now we do it on _my_ terms.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Bucky huffed.  “We’ve been doing shit on your terms our whole lives.”  Steve kept grinning, though he had enough decency to blush.  He dipped his head down, kissing at Bucky’s throat, dragging his lips up the contour of Bucky’s jaw to nibble at his ear.  Bucky groaned, hands twitching in the pillows.  He stared up at the ceiling over their bed, the morning light not yet touching it so it was still shadowy.  “I can fight that guy, Buck,” he said in his best Steve impression.  “I can take him.”  Steve hummed, licking around the shell of Bucky’s ear.  “I wanna walk home, Buck.  I won’t get sick.  Don’t matter if it’s raining.”  Steve’s fingers swept up his chest to meet his mouth as he kissed his way down.  They pulled at a nipple, and Bucky hissed in pleasure, and warm lips sealed over the aching bud, soothing the little pinch with gentle suckling.  “Oh, fuck – I can handle it, Buck,” Bucky stammered.  “Don’t gotta – gotta worry about me!”  It was getting harder to talk with Steve doing this.  Steve was rubbing at the other nipple, still sucking the first, but the wet heat of his mouth soon drifted across the expanse of Bucky’s chest to sweetly torture that side, too.  Bucky groaned, ramming his hips up to get some friction.  God…  “I’m gonna go to war, Buck.  Come on.  It’ll be fun.”

Steve pulled away from his chest.  “I never said that.”

“You were thinking it,” Bucky insisted.  “Please, darling, let me…”

“Nuh-uh.  You had your chance.”  Steve leaned down again, scooting down Bucky’s body some to get better access to his stomach.  He kissed there, fast and hot, tracing the hills and valleys of Bucky’s stomach with wet lips.

Bucky grabbed harder at the pillows as Steve took his hips, holding him down into the bed.  He was so hard it was starting to hurt, and Steve was being extra careful not to let him find any relief no matter how hard he tried to thrust up into his chest.  He’d married an asshole.  “I – I’m going to be Captain America, Buck,” he mumbled, trying to focus on his rant.  It was pretty pathetic, how hard it was to talk.  “Gonna hunt down…hunt down HYDRA across Europe, one suicide mission after another…”

Steve licked at the crease where his right thigh met his hip.  “Can’t all be suicide missions if we didn’t die _every time_ ,” he corrected with a snarky note in his voice, and this was how far they’d come, that they could both joke about that, about Bucky falling from a train and Steve crashing into the ice and the long, hellish winters they’d suffered.  Then that thought vanished because Steve’s tongue was sliding up Bucky’s shaft, caressing in little kitten licks.

Bucky could have screamed.  “I can do it, Buck!” he gasped.  “You’re coming, aren’t you?”

Steve pulled off where he’d been sucking lightly at the aching length of him.  “Not till I say so,” he reminded.  The mischievous glint in his eyes was simultaneously outrageously sexy and utterly infuriating.  Then he winked and took Bucky in his mouth, and at that point all of his teasing pretty much gave up the ghost.

“Oh, fuck, Steve,” Bucky whined.  He practically shredded the pillows, grappling for _something_ to hold onto under the pressure of the wet suction.  God, that felt good.  It always did.  Steve knew what he was doing, how to bring Bucky right to the edge of orgasm and hold him there.  And he really was an asshole, through and through, so that was _exactly_ what he did, taking Bucky deeper until the tip of him was practically down his throat and swallowing so Bucky could feel the ripple of muscles before backing off and going back to tantalizing, gentle teasing.  Bucky whined, desperate, need thrumming in his blood in a fever pitch, pleasure tightening inside him until it was still unanswered and becoming unbearable.  “God, fuck, _fuck,_ I hate you.”

Steve pulled off him with an obscenely wet sound.  His lips were cherry-red and spit-slicked as he lazily stroked Bucky’s flushed, tormented dick with his palm.  “Do you now?”

Bucky shivered through a breath, dizzy with want.  He’d been so _close_.  “Yeah, you jerk.  Hate you so fucking much.”

Steve hummed, reaching for the lube.  He popped the tube open and drizzled some over his fingers.  For a second Bucky wondered if Steve was going to prep him (and he was one-hundred-and-fifty percent okay with that), but he didn’t.  Instead he was climbing astride Bucky again, spreading his legs wide and reaching behind himself.  “Well, I guess you just gotta watch then.”

Bucky twitched in the pillows.  The need to touch Steve, kiss Steve, _have_ Steve was driving.  “Oh, Stevie, come on…”

“Nope,” Steve said, breathless, and Bucky knew he’d worked a finger inside himself.  The angle wasn’t great, not for getting it done efficiently or viewing, but Steve was flexible and quite obviously a monumental tease.  Bucky had no idea where the world had gotten this view of Steve as this soft-spoken, decorous paragon of virtue.  He swore like a sailor when it suited him, was stubborn and sassy, impulsive to beat the band sometimes, and he was ridiculous in bed (or he was now – it had taken Bucky some time to coax that out of him, but once he had…  Yeah, little, shy Steve Rogers was a thing of the past).  Steve was watching him now with half-lidded eyes, rocking back and forth as he thrust his finger in, sweating just enough that his skin glowed in the morning light.

And he _still_ had to run his yap.  “Give it up.  If memory serves me, and it usually does, _you_ were the one calling the shots yesterday, so you ain’t got cause to be whinin’ now.”

“That’s not fair,” Bucky moaned.  “We didn’t finish.  We had to go!”

Steve grunted.  He was adding more lube and going back at it, now with two fingers.  He was a sight.  “Them’s the breaks, Barnes.”

Bucky shook his head, panting.  “You’re a piece of work,” he whispered, but it was more awestruck than aggravated.

Steve grinned hazily and then tipped his head back and moaned.  His other hand was wet with lube now too, and he grasped his erection where it bobbed in front of him and gave himself a few strokes.  They weren’t with a purpose other than more teasing (or probably stemming off the misery of being so close with no stimulation.  Bucky knew that misery all too well).  “You forgot something in your little tirade earlier,” he gasped, leaving his manhood wet and shiny to grasp Bucky’s metal hand from where he’d obediently kept it in the pillows.

Bucky could have screamed in relief.  “What?” he moaned when Steve put his hand on Steve’s own erection.  _Finally._   Steve was slick enough that it was easy and comfortable to grasp and stroke him, and Bucky did, curling his fingers around the thick length, twisting his wrist the way he knew Steve liked before thumbing at the head.

Steve whined.  He had both hands free now, and he was covering Bucky’s dick with the lube, sloppy with it.  When he was through with that, he tossed the tube haphazardly to the side table, and it knocked his phone off.  They couldn’t have cared less.  Steve’s fever-bright eyes were intense, and he held Bucky’s gaze, never once looking away and hardly even blinking, as he steadied Bucky and sank down on him.  He took it slow, which was unusual for him.  Steve didn’t typically have a lot of patience when it came to making love (at least, when they did it this way.  When Bucky was on the bottom, he took all the time in the world to make sure he was ready, stretched and wet enough, and feeling perfect).  Bucky could feel Steve’s body opening for him as Steve lowered himself, inch by agonizing inch.  Christ, he was so hot and tight.  He always was.  The serum, for all the amazing things it had done to Steve and allowed Steve to do, wasn’t terribly helpful during sex.  It didn’t just erase all of Bucky’s love bites and hickeys.  The enhanced healing factor worked against them here, keeping Steve so strong and firm inside.

It also afforded Steve phenomenal control over his body, and after that initial resistance, he relaxed and took Bucky in no time at all.  Bucky arched his back in the pillow, forgetting to stroke Steve in the onslaught of pleasure.  He could feel every ripple, shift, and twitch of Steve’s muscles as they accommodated him, pulling him deeper and deeper, welcoming.  “God, God, Steve…”

“You forgot when I said…”  Steve lost his thought, wincing just a bit as he experimentally shifted his weight.  Bucky gripped his hips with both hands, steadying him, and stayed absolutely still while Steve adjusted and settled into it.

Steve leaned down after a moment or two, after he caught his breath and got himself comfortable, and took Bucky’s lips in a loving kiss.  “You forgot when I said, ‘I wanna get married, Buck.  You comin’?’”

“Worst proposal ever,” Bucky commented, rolling his hips up.

Steve groaned, curling his hands into Bucky’s pecs, digging blunt fingernails into Bucky’s skin in little bites of pain.  “Worked, didn’t it?” he gasped.

It had.  “Still followin’ that little guy from Brooklyn too dumb not to run away from a fight,” Bucky breathlessly whispered.  Steve pulled back more, rising up on his knees only to drop back down.  Bucky pushed up to meet him, still so sweetly slow and torturous.  He lifted his right hand from Steve’s hip to trail it up Steve’s stomach, caressing to the taut skin over his sternum.  “Always gotta follow him.”

Steve’s grin was nothing short of stunning.  “C’mon then.”

They didn’t talk much after that.  Steve pinned his hands again, fiercely kissing him as he moved.  He dictated the pace, rising and falling, working his hips, inhaling and exhaling and languidly taking his time.  Bucky couldn’t move if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to at all.  Watching Steve chase his pleasure was utterly mesmerizing.  It always was.  Bucky had seen it so many moments from their first time in a flurry of awkward passion and easy laughs and tender love shared in secret in Brooklyn to here and now, and it never ceased to enrapture him.  Steve was lost in it, biting his lower lip until it was very red, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, face twisted up slightly like it hurt to feel so good.  Bucky was so swept up too that he almost forgot his own orgasm, which was building like rolling thunder inside him.  He wasn’t able to do much else than go along for the ride at first with Steve’s weight keeping him pinned in place and Steve’s strength dominating his (with Steve practically _using_ him, and God that was too fucking erotic to stand), but as Steve got closer and closer, it was easier to wrest back control.  Bucky thrust upward, planting his bare feet to the mattress for leverage to change the angle, and Steve cried out, letting him go.  Bucky smiled, shivery and panting and certain he’d hit that sensitive place inside just right.  He did it again and again for good measure, and Steve’s movements became sloppier and even less coordinated, a spastic tumble towards ecstasy.

“Oh, please, Buck,” he whimpered.  “Please touch me.”

 _Gladly._   The thought was a bit smug and victorious and whole lot desperate to please.  Bucky leaned up from the pillows as much as he could, hooking his left arm around Steve’s back just above the swell of his ass, and licked his way through the tang of sweat on Steve’s chest to one of his nipples.  Now it was his turn, but he didn’t tease, latching his lips around the little bud and sucking hard until it was firm with blood in his mouth.  He snaked his right hand between them and grabbed Steve’s erection.  He couldn’t move much like this, and his hand was practically squished between them.  It was alright, though, because Steve was doing all the work, Steve who seemed completely caught between rocking down to drive Bucky’s length harder inside him and bucking up into his hand.  His whole body jerked, muscles bunching up with bliss, and Bucky bit lightly at the nipple his mouth, grabbed a handful of Steve’s ass with his left hand, squeezed harder at the spongy flesh in his right hand, shoved his hips up, _growled_ –

And Steve came with a soundless scream, mouth open and back bowing and spilling white all over Bucky’s fingers and his chest.  That was too much, seeing Steve’s pleasure, _feeling_ it so intensely, and Bucky couldn’t hang on anymore.  He followed right after with a ragged cry, letting go of Steve to fall back and thrust up as hard and deep as he could.  Heat and ecstasy crashed over him, exploding from inside, and he pumped his release into Steve, grabbing Steve’s hips to hold him in place.

For a while, there was only heavy breathing and soft, happy whimpers.  Bucky was vaguely aware that Steve had slumped on top of him, that he was wrapping his arms around Steve’s sweat-slicked, heaving back.  Steve’s insides fluttered, pulling the last of Bucky’s release out of him in tender waves, and Bucky groaned in utter satisfaction.  He sank into the bedding like he was melting.

Then Steve lifted his head, pushing himself up on Bucky’s chest a bit to look down on him.  The morning sun was hitting him just so, making his blue eyes even brighter.  They were hazy with pleasure, deep with love, so alive.  So powerful.  Steve smiled, hair mussed and skin still flushed and lips swollen.  As they caught their breaths and came down from the amazing high of it all, Bucky couldn’t help but stare.  Steve was staring right back.  “Buck,” Steve whispered.  “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

Bucky smiled, heart swelling.  “I ain’t the beautiful one, Stevie.”

“No, you are,” Steve said, and there was nothing but absolute sincerity in his voice.  “Look at you.”  He caressed Bucky’s cheek.  Bucky felt himself blush, and it seemed like he was all of eighteen again, with seventeen year-old Steve Rogers looking down at him after necking on his mom’s old couch while she was at work.  “I’ve seen you be so many things.  Seen you be a kid, a young man, a soldier.  Seen you then.  I see you now.  I see what you’ll become.”  Steve shook his head, smiling.   “It’s all beautiful, Buck.  Every part of you.  You’re all I see.  All I want to see.  All I’ll ever see.”

“Stevie…”  Bucky could barely speak around the lump growing in his throat.

“When we were apart, those years, I could still picture your face.  Your smile.”  Steve swept his thumb down Bucky’s cheek, through the prickle of his beard, to slip across his lips.  Bucky smiled and nipped lightly it, trying to tease in order to hide just how much the words meant.  “I could see it when I slept, see it when I dreamed, when I let my mind go during a meeting or whenever…”  He shook his head.  “Whenever I saw myself, I saw you.  I could see you right there in the mirror, smiling right back at me…  It was the only way I could get by some days, remembering you, picturing you, drawing you and seeing you and knowing you again in my heart.”

“Sweetheart…”

“Could look at you forever.”  Steve leaned down and kissed him firmly.  Bucky opened his mouth to him, threading his hands into his hair and keeping him close.  Steve groaned, shifting a little with Bucky yet inside him.  “Forever,” he murmured as he pulled away for a breath.  Their lips were brushing, and Bucky could feel the heat of Steve’s breath on his face.  “Every day for the rest of my life.  ’Cause I’m yours, Buck.”

God, this man.  Love didn’t begin to describe how deeply Bucky felt for him.  “I’m yours too,” he swore softly, kissing Steve again.  “Always and forever.”

Steve grinned into Bucky’s mouth and rocked his hips down a little.  They were both sticky and sweaty and needed to clean up, but Steve’s gentle motions were quickly stoking Bucky’s arousal, and he could feel himself getting hard again, feel that thrilling jolt go through his loins.  Smiling, he grabbed Steve’s hips and rolled them.  Steve gasped and then grunted as Bucky pinned him now, taking both his wrists and holding them into the pillow.  Steve’s eyes fluttered close, and he sighed in pleasure.  “I take it you want more then?” Bucky rumbled, kissing at the hinge of Steve’s jaw.

Groaning, Steve hooked his legs around Bucky’s hips, so much strength keeping Bucky right where he was in the cradle of Steve’s body.  “Always and forever.”

“Then keep your eyes on me, darlin’,” Bucky said, thrusting deeper and holding Steve tighter.

Steve grinned and did just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AgentCoop's wonderful art!
> 
>  


	2. Chapter 2

“So yesterday the world got its first official glimpse of the Winter Soldier as an Avenger, and social media has been going crazy ever since.  It’s dominated Twitter, Facebook, and the news cycle in a way that not much has recently.”

“You’re forgetting Barnes’ marriage to Captain America last year, Jess.”

“Well, since then.”

“And now you’re making it sound like that was a minor thing!  People were all over the place when it happened.  I mean, the Winter Soldier, HYDRA’s most decorated assassin–”

“Ex-assassin.”

“ _Ex_ -assassin, fine.  One of HYDRA’s weapons, specifically designed to create war and anarchy, _marrying_ the symbol of American liberty, freedom, and justice?  That was a big deal!”

“Hey, I had no problems with Rogers hooking up with Barnes.  If you believe the stories, they were a thing long before either of them was a soldier.  Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?  Let them be happy.”

“Doesn’t matter if they’re happy or not.  That sets a precedent.  So does having the Winter Soldier go onto the battlefield with the Avengers.  I mean, the guy was a mass murderer, just about as cold-blooded as you can get, and now he’s out there, acting like he _belongs_.  Just because he’s sleeping with the greatest hero in history doesn’t automatically make him one.”

“Cold, Jason.  Really.”

“I’m just echoing what people are saying.  You want to talk about what’s trending?  There’s a lot of anti-Winter Soldier sentiment out there.  Barnes hooking up with Cap was one thing, but actually _trusting_ him to have the world’s back when we really need it?  Having faith in him to protect people when just years ago he was blowing buildings up and killing folks left and right?  Project: Insight?  Anyone remember _that_?”

“You’re ignoring all the people who support him and support his becoming an Avenger.  And the little fact the guy had no choice when the bad stuff was happening.  He was a prisoner of war for _seventy years._ Congress released all the information from the SHIELD data dump.  It’s been confirmed that the guy was tortured and brainwashed.  And it’s also been confirmed that he’s clean now.”

“Can you _ever_ be clean after something like that?”

“Oh, come on.  King T’Challa vouched for him.  He’s a genius, like Tony Stark-level of smart.  And Stark…  He wouldn’t let Cap put him on the team if he didn’t trust him.  Are you going to doubt that?”

“I doubt everything.  How many times has the American public been lied to?  You want to talk about the SHIELD data dump?  That _happened_ because SHIELD was HYDRA.  HYDRA had its fingers in everything, Barnes included.  How can we ever be sure he’s on our side?  Who does he think he is, going out there and–”

“Christ, Bucky, turn that shit off.”

Bucky startled from where he was making breakfast as the television abruptly went dark.  Sam tossed the remote to coffee table in the common room’s spacious seating area before strolling over to the kitchen.  He was a little sweaty, dressed in his running shoes, lightweight shorts, and a lycra sports shirt.  Clearly he’d just come up from the gym, and he walked over to the fridge and pulled out the bottle of orange juice.  “You don’t actually believe any of that crap, do you?” he asked as he leaned against the granite countertop and put the bottle to his lips.

Sam was so damn perceptive.  From the minute Bucky had met him, he’d been nothing but appreciative of him.  Hands-down he was the most loyal, kind, and decent man Bucky had ever met (well, excluding Steve, but Steve was Steve and Bucky might be biased).  Sam was ex-military, a former Air Force pararescue expert, so he understood Steve and Bucky on a very fundamental level.  As Steve told it, they met coincidentally during a run one morning in Washington, DC right before SHIELD had collapsed.  Sam had stood by Steve through some really tough stuff, everything from HYDRA’s attempt to destroy the world using Project: Insight to hunting tirelessly across Europe for the missing Winter Soldier to the fall-out from the Ultron debacle.  He was calm, cool, level-headed, and smart as a whip.  He’d had every reason to doubt Bucky’s capacity to be reformed and rehabilitated when they brought him back to the States.  Hell, Sam more than anyone knew exactly the level of violence and destruction of which the Winter Soldier had been capable.  It’d been Sam who’d sat at Steve’s bedside, after all, after Bucky had shot him three times, beat him to within an inch of his life, and then left him on the riverbank after the fight against SHIELD had ended.

But Sam hadn’t doubted, at least not in a way that had ever been mean or insulting.  Sam had been supportive of Steve’s efforts to bring Bucky back, and now, in the wake of the long, dark months they’d spent helping Bucky overcome the worst of what HYDRA had done to him, Sam was supporting Bucky himself as well.  Sam always did what he did because he cared about Steve, and once Bucky’s mind had cleared enough for him to remember who he was and understand the world around him, he was nothing but appreciative of that.  And, once Bucky had demonstrated that he was no longer a threat to Steve or anyone else, Sam had become a friend to both of them, not just Steve.  Bucky wasn’t sure he was worthy of that in the slightest.  Hell, Sam had been _their_ best man at their wedding.  The guy was nothing short of a godsend.

So there was no hiding anything from him.  The smell of burning bacon assaulted Bucky’s nose, and he looked down to see his pan smoking.  “Ah, hell,” he groaned, pulling it off the heat instantly.  Frowning, he supposed he could throw the overly-crisp meat out, but then he’d been raised with a frugal mindset, and wasting food never sat well with him.  Instead he used the tongs to get them onto a plate with a paper towel to soak up the grease.  “I’ll eat ’em.”

“Bucky.”

“What?”  He looked up and saw Sam staring at him knowingly.  

Sam sighed.  “You don’t have to eat burnt bacon.  And tell me you don’t believe what those people are saying about you.”  Bucky grimaced, and that was all the answer Sam needed.  “You know they’re just trying to sell ad space.”

Bucky was still trying to get his head wrapped around technology and its effects on modern culture and politics.  It was weird that he’d technically been out of the ice longer than Steve but he was far less adapted to the world than Steve was.  Still, he was learning things fast, and the concept of sensationalizing shit to make money was as old as time.  He sighed and dumped the ruined bacon in the trash.  “I know.”

His tone wasn’t confident enough for Sam’s taste.  Bucky headed back to the massive stainless-steel refrigerator and pulled out the pack of bacon, and he could feel Sam’s eyes on him every step of the way.  “Hey,” Sam called, but Bucky didn’t stop, setting the package down on the counter and going into the cabinets for a clean pan.  He dumped the other pan in the sink, and Sam reached out and grabbed his left arm as he turned back.  “Hey!  Bucky, come on.  All of this…  It’s just stupid talk.  People talk constantly.  Pundits and politicians and the news guys, and social media just makes it all so much worse.  It’s basically a huge platform where people can be anonymous assholes.”

Bucky grunted.  That was true enough.  Steve and Tony (well, Tony at Steve’s request, Bucky thought) had gone to great lengths to shield him from the worst of the media coverage of his return to the States.  Practically the entire team had been subpoenaed to testify in the Congressional hearings some months back (hearings that had exonerated him, in fact), but other than that, the public’s opinions of him had been kept pretty distant and muffled.  After their wedding (small and quiet as it was) it had been much the same, though he’d certainly appreciated the unexpected waves of support he had heard and seen.

Sam was reminding him of that now.  “But for every anonymous asshole there are always more people in your corner, you know.  These talk show idiots twist stuff around.  After the fight yesterday?  The stuff trending on Twitter was all about how great it was to see you out there, kicking ass and taking names.  People _liked_ having you as an Avenger.”

Bucky knew Sam wouldn’t lie to him.  Plus he hadn’t checked what was going on in the blogosphere, or whatever the hell they called that, so he really couldn’t say one way or another how his reception had truly gone.  He hadn’t been brave enough to look last night after the quinjet had set down at the Avengers complex in upstate New York.  In fact, no one had really talked about just how monumental the day had been.  They’d all gathered in the communal dining room with a magnificent spread provided by the chefs on site, rich pasta and breaded chicken and cooked eggplant, hearty salad and freshly baked bread and chocolate cake (Bucky’s favorite and surely not by accident).  And they’d eaten and laughed and chatted like any other night, but the good cheer and camaraderie had been downright infectious.  Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so damn _happy_.  At that moment, after all the hardship and trauma he’d suffered, after such a long struggle…  That moment with the Avengers welcoming him to their table, with Steve smiling at him with nothing but pride and love in his eyes…  That was easily one of the best moments of his life.

Sam smiled and clasped his shoulder.  “Don’t let it get to you, huh?  You know how it is.”

Bucky did.  He did all too well.  If he had days where he couldn’t forgive himself for the crimes he’d been forced to commit, how the hell could he expect everyone else to?  Becoming an Avenger had been so simple and easy.  Steve had asked him, and he’d said yes, and the team had gone along with it.  He hadn’t had to prove anything to anyone.  He hadn’t had to announce it, hadn’t had to defend it.  He hadn’t had to demonstrate his worthiness or give some sort of sign he was ready to atone.  He’d just done it.  And because it was all so simple and easy, just doing it didn’t earn him absolution.

But Sam didn’t detect those darker thoughts.  Sam just went on.  “Being an Avenger’s all about dealing with the media, too.  They are all over us all the time.  Cap doesn’t tell you that crap when he asks you to join up.”  Bucky chuckled despite himself, ducking his chin to his chest a bit.  Sam rubbed his shoulder a bit.  “Nothing to worry about.  Everything went great yesterday.”

Bucky couldn’t help a rush of pride at that.  “Did, didn’t it?”

“Definitely.  And everyone knows it.  Everyone _saw_ it.  We rocked it.  So these jerks can piss and moan all they want, but they’ll eventually come around in the face of our awesomeness.”  Bucky grunted softly at that, dropping the bacon into the pan.  Sam stepped back and took a giant swig of juice.  “And if they don’t, fuck ’em.”

Bucky laughed.  “You’re one of a kind, Wilson.”

“Right back at you, Barnes.”

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!”

The sound of Tony’s voice had them both turning.  The inventor was strolling into the communal kitchen from the main hallway.  He looked nice, dressed in faded jeans that probably cost more than anything Bucky had ever owned and a t-shirt sporting the logo for a band Bucky had never heard of.  Stark looked well put together, hair nicely gelled and goatee neatly trimmed.  He was always like that, the picture of effortless style, and that reminded Bucky of Howard Stark so much that it scared him sometimes.  His memories of Tony’s father came and went, much like his memories of everything and everyone else from back then, but he remembered that, the suave charm and boundless charisma.

Of course, comparing Tony to his father stoked the embers of a whole bunch of feelings Bucky would rather forget, namely the fact that he’d apparently murdered Tony’s parents more than twenty years ago on a dark, snowy night in December.  His nightmares of the things he’d done as the Winter Soldier had become quieter with time, therapy, Wakandan medicine, and the aid of Wanda and Vision, but they’d never go away completely.  Some of the sharpest among them were the deaths of Howard and Maria Stark.  Every single time he had anything to do with Tony that was there, all this barely resolved pain and guilt.  It framed the context of every interaction from the mundane to the major.  Tony undoubtedly noticed it, too.

Hence why there was always this lingering tension between them.  It wasn’t violent or demanding, not anymore, but it was persistent and likely intractable.  Tony seemed to have made some peace with what Bucky had been forced to do, though it had taken him time and the help of the rest of the team, Steve in particular.  Bucky, in turn, had apologized on numerous occasions, if not directly than with all the downcast, contrite expressions he found himself wearing in Tony’s presence.  Steve had told him repeatedly that he didn’t have to continue to feel this way, that he wasn’t to blame and Tony knew that.  Hell, Tony had told him that in the past once when he’d been working on his old arm.  It had been a rare moment the two of them had been alone, with Stark bent over the exposed delicate mechanics of the failing bionic limb and Bucky sitting stiffly beside him, hating himself and every second they were spending together.  He’d reluctantly said he was sorry (again) just to fill the silence, and for the first time, Tony had really looked him in the eyes and addressed the issue.  _“I know it wasn’t your fault.  I know that.  My head does, anyway.  My heart can’t let it go so easily, but I’m trying, okay?  I’m trying.”_

Forgiving and forgetting.  It wasn’t always so easy.

Like now.  The second Tony saw Bucky was the one the making breakfast, he clammed up for just a second.  It was hardly anything, his shoulders going tense for the briefest moment, his jaw clenching enough that the muscles of his face minutely shifted, eyes darkening with distrust and upset.  If Bucky hadn’t been so hypersensitive to everything Tony did around him, he might not have noticed.

Sam seemed to notice, too.  “Morning, Stark,” he said with a smile.

Tony flashed a dazzling grin all his own that was nothing shy of utterly overcompensating.  “Morning, Wilson.”  He glanced at Bucky.  “Didn’t know you cooked,” he commented.  Again, it was a shallow attempt to hide his discomfort.

Bucky regarded at his charred bacon in the trash bin.  “Not well.”

“Better than me,” Tony remarked more nonchalantly.  “But then I never needed to learn, so I had an excuse.”

That was said more teasingly than to be mean about it.  Tony knew damn well what a privileged life he’d led.  He sure as hell could be abrasive and arrogant and basically an asshole when it suited him, but he’d lived through his own hells, as Steve explained, the deaths of his parents notwithstanding.  Afghanistan.  Obadiah Stane’s betrayal.  The Battle of New York had traumatized him.  The Mandarin.  He had his issues, but then, who among them didn’t?

The thing was, though, this was just another aspect of Tony that set Bucky on edge.  The other Avengers were fairly straightforward and easy for Bucky to understand.  Even Natasha, with all the complexities of their prior relationship in the Red Room, made more sense to him than Stark did sometimes.  Steve seemed accustomed to Tony’s moods, the way Tony slung insults like barbs when he was really just teasing, the way he seized up when he got tense and could sometimes be sarcastic and self-deprecating all at once.  The way he talked so fast and wielded sharp intelligence like a weapon.  The way he said one thing but meant another.  Steve took it all in stride.  All it did was confuse the hell out of Bucky.

“I take it Steve-o did all the cooking back in the day,” Tony commented, drawing Bucky out of his thoughts.  Now he smiled faintly, like he realized he’d made Bucky uncomfortable and was looking to smooth things over.  “He’s pretty good at it.”

Bucky gathered himself and went back to getting his meal ready with gusto.  “Yeah, he is.  Always has been.  His mother was amazing.  She could make food taste incredible with nothing at all to work with, which was good because for a while that was exactly what we had.”

“What about your mom?” Sam asked.  He did this sometimes, went out of his way to inquire about Bucky’s past life like he was trying to get him into the conversation.  It was a hold-out from back when Bucky had first started to rejoin the world.  “Was she a good cook?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answered, thinking back to his childhood.  There were a lot of holes in his memories still, but things were coming out of the darkness more and more.  The smell of cookies and baking bread and simmering soup and his mother’s skirts in front of the stove and her voice high and light in a song.  He shook himself free of it and smiled fondly.  “She sure as hell didn’t pass any of her talent onto me, though.”

Tony gave a bit of an awkward grin.  “Where is Steve, anyway?  I wanted to talk to him.”

And thus the true purpose of this awkward exchange was revealed.  Bucky wasn’t sure if he should be hurt or relieved.  He was a bit of both.  “He was just getting out of the shower when Fury called.  He’ll be here soon.”  Bucky hoped so, anyway.  He’d come a long way towards this being normal, but he still felt so much better – more anchored and grounded and confident – with Steve around.  It was funny and probably inappropriate all things considered, but he saw some of himself in Stark.  The way he used to be, anyway.  The charm and the confidence and just a bit of swagger.  He saw himself the way he was now, too.  Darker and more damaged and just a bit tainted.  Tony had done awful shit, too.  He was a good man – Bucky _knew_ that – but he’d made a lot of mistakes in his life.  He’d unwittingly done evil and was still struggling with the guilt and repercussions.  He knew the burden of searching for atonement.  That was one way in which Bucky understood Tony that Steve never would.

The bacon sizzling in the skillet drew his attention, and he turned back to breakfast, determined not to burn it this time.  Sam went to start making coffee.  “New wings worked great yesterday, by the way,” he announced as he selected a ridiculously rich blend from the cabinet.  “Forgot to tell you last night.”

Tony beamed.  “You like the upgrade then?”

“Thrusters that go twice as fast with half the fuel?”  Sam grinned toothily.  “What’s not to like?”

“Not too rough?  I can try to calibrate the flight system a little better, maybe take some of the strain off when you bank or drop power–”

“Dude, you know who you’re talking to, right?” Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, turning on the coffee machine.  “ _Too_ rough.  That’s a goddamn riot.”

Tony laughed and came closer as he got himself a mug from the cabinet.  Bucky felt his glance more than saw it.  “And the, uh, arm?  That was okay yesterday?  No problems?”

Bucky looked down at his new arm.  A gift from T’Challa and the wonderful people of Wakanda, it was pure, dark gray vibranium with gold inlay, so perfectly crafted and stunningly shiny it was really beautiful.  Bucky felt utterly undeserving.  His old arm had been an utter piece of shit, to be frank, with tech that dated back to HYDRA’s early days of using him as an assassin.  They never replaced it that he could recall.  Although his memories were pretty hazy, Tony had confirmed that some of the parts inside were well over fifty years old and that Arnim Zola and the rest of HYDRA were a bunch of cheap bastards.  Without their maintenance routines, the arm had started hurting him something fierce (well, hurting more – for as long as he could recall, the damn thing had pained him) and begun failing to function properly.  It had taken some doing on Steve’s part to convince him to let Tony have a look (for all the obvious reasons, what the arm symbolized notwithstanding), but once he did six months ago, everything had changed.  Before he knew it, Tony and Bruce had designed a whole new limb with better anchoring, better connections to Bucky’s nervous system, upgraded control and sensation, and reduced discomfort.  Then, like it was nothing at all, Tony was flying Steve and him to Wakanda where Shuri, the princess and T’Challa’s younger sister, and her people put him under and surgically replaced the bad limb.

 _Just like that._   So many things were that way now.  Again, simple and easy.  He needed a new arm?  It just happened.  He wanted to become an Avenger?  He just did.  He wanted to marry Steve?  _Simple._   They just _got married._

Crazy.

“Yeah, it was great.  No complaints from me.”  He smiled genuinely, which wasn’t hard at all because he truly was very grateful.  He hadn’t even realized how much his old arm bothered him until this new one, this one that was lighter and stronger and more powerful and not at all tainted by HYDRA’s evil.  Waking up in the recovery room in Wakanda to Steve’s smile and the clean, safe world had been like nothing else, like waking up as a new person.  Like he’d finally shed the last vestiges of his captivity, broken the final chains and found freedom.  “None whatsoever.”

Tony smiled, this one not as wildly enthusiastic but no less sincere.  “Good.  Great.  Yeah, just, uh, let me know if you noticed anything amiss.  And you should probably stop by the workshop in the next couple days so I can run some diagnostics.”

That tempered the good feeling a bit for all sorts of reasons, spending time alone with Tony not even the worst of them.  “Anythin’ wrong?”

“Nope,” Tony replied simply, pouring himself coffee.  The aroma of it was very strong.  “Just dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s and all that.”

“I smell coffee.”  Clint’s voice had Bucky turning around at the stove.  The archer came into the kitchen with Natasha at his side.  He was dressed in black jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.  Bucky didn’t know him overly well, but he seemed like a stand-up guy.  A family man, actually, if Steve was to be believed, though one wouldn’t know it.  Clint had a wry sense of sense of humor and he was very pragmatic, and Bucky definitely liked that about him.

He didn’t think he’d ever get used to seeing Natasha like this, though.  The Black Widow he’d known in Russia seemed nothing like this young woman before him.  _Nat._   That was what the others called her, what Steve called her.  Not Natalia Alianovna Romanova.  She’d come so far from the emotionless, brutal, relentless assassin Bucky had helped train.  When Steve had first brought him back, she’d been uncomfortable around him, reserved and uncertain and maybe even afraid.  With time, she’d gotten past that and offered up her own advice and guidance in overcoming a dark, blood-stained past.  They had a lot in common, brainwashed and conditioned to be murderers against their will, and now they were both on a quest for absolution.  Natasha was a lot further along on that quest than Bucky was, with her tenure as a SHIELD agent and as well-established as an Avenger as she was.  She was practically Steve’s lieutenant, the one helping him run the military and tactical aspects of every mission the Avengers conducted, and she was incredible at it.

She was nothing but cool confidence now as she strolled into the kitchen and got herself a mug.  “Tell me this isn’t Stark’s fancy crap,” she teased as she reached for the carafe.

“Hey,” Tony protested.  “That’s biting the hand that feeds.  And I’m right here, you know.  No need to insult my coffee.”

“Oh, my god.  You _are_ here,” Clint said.  He took the cup right out of Natasha’s hands and started drinking it with a sly smile.  “I was starting to think morning light made you melt or something.”

Tony took a big swig of his steaming drink and winced as it went down.  “Eh.  Pepper had to be out early for a big conference in Malibu.  Couldn’t go back to sleep.”

“Wow.  You actually made it to bed last night?” Clint asked, fake (well, probably not entirely fake) incredulity in his voice.  “What happened?  Did you run out of solder and computer chips?”

Tony rolled his eyes.  “I dunno.  Do you ever run out of jokes that aren’t lame as hell?”

“I have an endless supply,” Clint quipped.  He spied the pan and the pack of bacon.  “You’re gonna need more of that, Barnes.  Thor’s coming.  And Banner, I think.”

Bucky went cold.  Cooking for the team?  That was basically what Clint was implying.  And his enhanced hearing picked up the accented voices of Vision and Wanda coming into the common area.  She was walking close to him, too close for a casual relationship.  Everyone suspected there was something more going on there, but no one dared ask.  Wanda smiled brightly as she saw everyone.  “Good morning!  I didn’t know we were having breakfast.”

 _They_ weren’t.  Bucky and Steve were.  Bucky wasn’t sure how him slipping out to the kitchen to quickly fry up some bacon and eggs for him and his husband had turned into this, but he was increasingly horrified.  Sam was going into the fridge and pulling out more food, more eggs and more bacon and butter.  Vision eyed the amount dubiously.  He was a strange sort, an android, Bucky thought, though he wasn’t quite sure.  With his red skin and the yellow gem glowing in his forehead, he certainly attracted more than a passing glance whenever the team was seen in public.  He was incredibly powerful.  “I fear these quantities will not be sufficient, James.”

He was also the only one on the team who didn’t call him “Bucky” or “Barnes”.  “I wasn’t planning on…  I mean, I don’t think I can–”

“I got it.”  Steve’s voice had him turning, and he strolled into the kitchen with a knowing smirk on his face.  Bucky was caught between wanting to kiss him breathless for saving his ass and glaring at him for looking so smug about it.  Steve was freshly showered and freshly shaved and looking incredible in just a pair of jeans and a gray t-shirt that was bordering on being too small.  Compared to Bucky’s sweats and hoodie with his hair pulled back sloppily, he looked utterly dapper.

Steve pushed his way up to the stove, immediately turning the heat down.  “Pancakes?  Tony, you want to order up some more stuff?  Vision’s right; this isn’t going to be enough.”

“Aye-aye, Cap,” Tony said with a jaunty salute, and he was off to contact Friday.

Not long after, breakfast was in full force.  The team was gathered around the breakfast bar and at the not-so-little dinette to the side.  Friday had had the kitchen staff send up an assortment of fresh fruit and pastries, but Steve and Sam had done the rest.  Clint had gone to raid the pantries down in the main kitchens, and now they had enough eggs, bacon, sausage, and pancakes to feed an army.  That was great, because, sure enough, Thor and Bruce joined them.  And Peter Parker, who occasionally spent the night when he was learning from their resident science geniuses.  That kid could shovel it in almost as much as Bucky and Steve could.  It was astounding just how much food the team went through in a sitting.  It was also incredible, just seeing all these different people get together and enjoy each other.  Bucky had thought that a few times before, had definitely mused on it last night at dinner, but something about this morning…  How casual it was.  That was it, he supposed, as he sat at the bar near the gas range and watched his husband laugh with Sam and Clint and flip fluffy, golden pancakes onto a plate.  This, too, seemed so simple and easy now, so much so that it was hard to imagine the difficult road they’d all walked to get to this point.  None of them was without his or her demons and traumas.  Putting their troubles aside to work together had been a steep challenge, Bucky knew.  Furthermore, what they’d faced as a team hadn’t been a walk in the park by any means.  SHIELD collapsing.  Hunting down HYDRA’s horrors.  Ultron.  The debate over government regulation in the wake of Sokovia.

Bucky coming back.

Yet the Avengers had become stronger for all that.  And it was remarkable (although Bucky didn’t know why he hadn’t realized it before or why he could ever think otherwise) how much Steve was at the center of it all.  He watched as his husband sat down at the breakfast bar with a teeming plate of eggs and breakfast meats and pancakes smothered in syrup, watched him laugh at something Thor said, watched him completely at ease with this incredible group of people who’d inexplicably become their friends and family.  All of them.  Tony chatting with Banner about some sort science experiment they had either started or were about to start with Peter trying to push his way into the conversation at every opportunity like an excited puppy.  Natasha and Clint at the breakfast bar, too, Clint’s plate piled with donuts that he was dipping into his coffee one ring at a time.  Vision and Wanda were close together at the dinette, and she was smiling and leaning toward him again, completely relaxed and clearly infatuated as he spoke in low tones. 

These different, difficult, _incredible_ people, with all their issues and disparate opinions and personalities were the _Avengers_ , and Steve was the one who held them together as a team.  Of course, it made sense.  Back during the war, Captain America had been a symbol to everyone, to the troops and the brass and their enemies.  Even to the Howling Commandos and the people who knew him best.  But here…  This wasn’t just about Captain America.  This was about Steve Rogers.  It was Steve they were gathered around, Steve they listened to.  It was Steve they were smiling at and chatting with and horsing around with.  And it was Steve they respected and loved, not just a leader and a soldier, but a brother.

Little Steve Rogers who’d been small and scrawny and sick all the time, who’d been so poor he stuffed newspapers in his shoes to keep his feet warm and lived day in and day out impoverished, who everyone thought wouldn’t amount to anything…  _Wow._

“You okay, Buck?”

Steve’s voice drew him from his reverie (fuck, his thoughts were really getting away from him this morning), and he finished spearing a few more pancakes from the platter and sticking them on his plate.  He slathered them with butter and dumped an ocean of syrup on top because why the hell not?  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he answered quickly.  “It’s nothing.”

Steve didn’t look convinced.  Bucky came back and plopped down right beside him.  Thor had recently vacated the seat to go bicker with Bruce and Tony (Thor’s personality and ego were as big as he was, which made for some serious clashing with Stark, but it was all in good spirit.  Well, mostly it was good spirit).  Bucky tucked into his plate in hopes that Steve wouldn’t press further.

Thankfully, Sam changed the subject.  “So what did Fury want?” he asked, leaning forward to raise his fresh cup of coffee to his lips.

Steve chewed appreciatively, swallowed, and said, “PR event.”

Sam frowned.  “Again?  Didn’t we just do one?”

The team had.  Bucky had stayed behind with Wanda and Vision while the rest of the Avengers had attended some sort of gala to raise money for juvenile chronic illnesses.  The Avengers were celebrities, no doubt about it.  Pepper typically handled these things, and while no one strictly _liked_ doing them, the embarrassment and discomfort was always for a good cause.  “What is this time?” he asked.  He couldn’t help a snarky grin.  “And will there be tights involved?”

“Haha, you asshole,” Steve said, flushing in embarrassment.  “And no.  It’s some speech the army wants to have at West Point.  Plus a circuit of children’s hospitals.  The first thing came down from Congress, I guess.  The other one is to get some foundation off his back.”

“How many hospitals?” Sam asked.

“Uh…  Some.”

Sam shook his head, rolling his eyes a bit.  “I take it you agreed.”

Steve grimaced.  “It’s not a bad cause.”

“No, not at all, but you did because you have no backbone, not when it comes to turning down Nick Fury and stuff like this.”

“I agreed,” Steve said, “because it’s the right thing to do.”  He flushed.  “And I owe Fury a couple of favors.”  He glanced at Bucky, and that of course wasn’t meant to be an accusation, but Bucky couldn’t stop the prickle of guilt.  Fury had helped a lot in the background when Steve had brought Bucky back to the States.  Bucky didn’t know the extent of what the SHIELD Director done to protect him, but he was pretty sure Fury had been the one to keep the government off their backs, at least at first.  He’d aided in arranging therapists and medical treatments without drawing attention to the complex, and he’d controlled the information spread and maintained some distance with the media.  Hell, Bucky was fairly certain Fury had either somehow found or forged birth certificates for the both of them so they could legally get married.  Steve never said as much, but Bucky always assumed Fury had done all that out of guilt.  After all, SHIELD had tortured and brainwashed the Winter Soldier for years essentially right under his nose.

But apparently Steve had paid for some of it with future indentured servitude.  Or he was submitting to this slavery out of a sense of obligation.  It didn’t matter.  It still made Bucky feel like shit.  Everything Steve had done for him, was still doing for him…  It certainly wasn’t for him to think so lowly of himself.  He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him today.  There was no reason to be this insecure.  His therapist told him he’d have tough days, days where his thoughts got away from him and depression and anxiety would rear their ugly heads…  Just not today.  Not after the triumph of last night and the love he and Steve had made that morning.  God, he hated how fucked up he still was sometimes.

“How much of a turn on was it, Buckaroo?”

“Huh?”  Bucky snapped out of it, looking up from where he’d been staring a hole into his breakfast plate.

Tony was there, eating a donut that was positively dripping in glaze.  “Rogers.  In tights.”

“Oh.”  Bucky didn’t know if Tony was purposefully trying to distract him from his thoughts or if he was just randomly providing a diversion.  Either way, it helped.  “I, uh…  Yeah, I actually never saw him in them.”

“Really?” Tony said, his mouth full.

Bucky glanced at Steve, easily latching onto a hint of deviousness.  Teasing Steve was always a favorite pastime of his.  And Tony’s, too.  And Sam’s.  “Yeah.  He was already through doing the USO Tour by the time he rescued me.  Then he got a new outfit – er – _uniform_ , and the tights were long gone.  I asked him to keep it, mind, but he’d already come up with some ridiculous ‘combat-ready’ ideas.”  Steve’s ears were already burning, and Bucky smiled sweetly.  “Cryin’ shame.”

“Which can be rectified!” Tony announced, handing the remains of his gooey mess to Peter.  Peter balked but took it all the same.  The kid practically worshipped the ground Tony walked on.  “I happen to have a treasure trove of prime humiliation material.”

“They’ve all seen the propaganda films, Tony,” Steve grouchily reminded, blushing even harder.

“Not all of them.”  Tony’s grin was downright evil.  “Howard had some particularly rare samples in his collection, and guess to whom bequeathed them?”  He made a show of thinking hard.  “I wonder how much money I could make with a YouTube channel devoted your illustrious film career?”

Now Steve blanched.  Bucky had to hide his grin with a mouthful of pancakes, though chewing was something of a challenge.  He watched his husband for a second as Steve’s mood darkened and he sputtered indignantly while the others laughed more and poked fun.  Then he took pity on him.  Steve was pretty sensitive about his “Captain America the actor” years (and the brief but memorable life and times of Captain America the chorus girl).  It had something to do with Steve’s need to always be useful, even if it was not the way he intended.  The USO Tour and the war bonds gig and the stupid films…  Yes, it was embarrassing, but he’d done it because he’d thought at the time that was all he _could_ do.  There was nobility in that, in wanting to help no matter what, though Bucky didn’t think many people saw that (or appreciated it).  Anyway, this was a sore spot, and Steve wasn’t rolling so well with the punches.  So Bucky cleared his throat and decided to spare him from further torment.  “What else did Fury have to say, Steve?”

That nicely shifted the conversation.  Steve pushed Tony off him where the other man was trying to take a selfie with “the most spangliest celeb ever” (as he just put it) and went back to his meal.  His brow furrowed a bit.  “Not much.  He was… weird.”

“Weird, like, I’m lying to you through my teeth weird?  Or weird like something funky’s going down weird and I’m not telling you everything,” Sam said before draining another glass of orange juice.

“Aren’t those the same thing?” Peter asked as he reached for the plate of bacon.

“Weird like something’s wrong.  And not something Avengers or SHIELD-related.  Not strictly anyway.  At least, I don’t think so.”  Steve shook his head.  “He’s not himself.  Hasn’t been the last couple months, and it’s getting more noticeable.  He looks… tired, I guess.  Troubled.”  He considered that a moment.  “Older.”

“Nick Fury does not age,” Tony smartly declared.  “It’s a metaphysical impossibility.”

The connection between age and Fury actually quieted the cheer around the table.  Sam grimaced.  “Everybody does, I guess,” he said.  “Even him.  How long has been doing this?”

“Better question is how long can you,” Bruce said as he sat next to Tony.  He reached over to add some creamer to his coffee.  “You have to admit the last few years have been rough, to say the least.  His position requires a sharp mind.  Attention to detail, the capacity to multi-task, tactical thinking…  Even if he’s as good at all that as he was five years ago, the stress is hell.”  He shrugged.  “Maybe he wants out.”

Tony’s forehead wrinkled in concern.  “Are you saying he’s going to… what?  Retire?”

Bruce shrugged. “There’s a reason why people do.  There comes a time when you just can’t do any more.  This life we have is a tough one.  If you’re not at the top of your game–”

“You must be,” Thor said, “else lives are lost.  I saw it in my father before he died, the degradation age and old injuries can bring.  The disability they can become.  He could no longer do his duties.”

Tony seemed to consider that a moment, and then he shook his head.  “Fury _can’t_ retire,” he insisted.  “What the hell else is he going to do?  Play eighteen holes every day?  Take up stamp collecting?”  He sounded more and more incredulous and perturbed.  “Drive a school bus?  That’d be fucking horrifying.  Can you imagine the looks of those kids’ faces?”

“He didn’t say anything about leaving,” Steve said.

“Exactly,” Tony said.  “Therefore, the One-Eyed Wonder shall not resign from his post.  Ever.”

Bucky stared at his plate a moment, feeling oddly morose about it.  He didn’t know Fury all that well, hadn’t been in his flock of superheroes and Avengers long enough to really get to know him (if one could even get to know him, that was), but even for him the idea of the SHIELD Director sagging under the weight of his job was upsetting.  He could see why Tony was a little rocked (and whole lot dismissive) of the idea.  If Steve was the team’s heart and Tony was its brains, then Fury was its bones, something beneath the surface that held everything up and kept it all strong.  He was the one who’d saved Tony’s life when the arc reactor in his chest had been slowly poisoning him.  He was the one who’d seen to it that Steve was brought into the twenty-first century as gently as possible after he’d been found in the ice.  And he was the one who’d brought the Avengers together to begin with, who’d championed the idea before the World Security Council amidst a global crisis when tensions and fears were at their highest.  In the wake of HYDRA bursting out from inside SHIELD, he’d repented for what he believed were damning and monumental mistakes.  He’d rebuilt SHIELD from the ground up, creating a huge informational and logistical support structure through which the Avengers operated.  And, again, he’d done so much for Bucky and Steve, but particularly for Bucky during the government hearings about the Winter Soldier.

Maybe Fury had committed crimes in the past, lied and obfuscated the truth and twisted situations to his own ends.  He’d certainly used and manipulated people to get things done.  After all, he was a master spy, and he’d never completely change his ways, both because he was who he was and because his ways had their uses.  Still, he always had the safety and security of the world motivating him.  The simple truth was this: if it hadn’t been for Fury, none of them would be where they were.

“I hate to interrupt this truly heart-warming discussion that I may or may not divulge to Nick later the next time I need leverage against you boys,” Natasha said as she came over and snatched the donut right off Tony’s plate, “but really?  _Really?_ ”

“What?” Tony said.  “And that’s mine.”

Natasha took a huge bite of it.  Her sharp eyes turned to Steve.  “No offense, Cap, but would he tell you if was thinking about it?  The master spy, who always plays his hand close.  If he was really considering stepping down, would he just let that one slip?”

That gave Steve pause.  Then he backed off with another blush.  “You guys are the ones talking about retirement.  I just said he was off.”

The rest of the group let out a few grumbles and half-hearted objections, probably embarrassed to have gotten so worked up over silly speculation (over Nick Fury, of all things).  Bucky watched Natasha look them over, and it was clear enough (to him, anyway, though the others didn’t seem to notice) that she wasn’t as sly and confident about it as she was trying to be.  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” she added after they were done accusing each other of being stupid.  She finished her donut before grinning, but it was _too_ strong.  “Even if it were to happen, which it wouldn’t, he’d make sure we could handle everything.  He’d leave us in good hands.”

Tony grunted.  _Tony,_ who Steve said used to complain to high heaven about how much of a pain in the ass Fury was and how little he wanted to work for him.  There was still friction between the Avengers and SHIELD, and there probably always would be.  “If they were our hands, maybe.”  He glanced at Steve, and Steve frowned.  A few months ago after the hearings concerning HYDRA and the Winter Solider, Steve had told Bucky that there was also constant tension between the Avengers and the US government.  It worried Tony a lot, that the government would shut them down.  SHIELD was some oversight at least but not enough in the eyes of many in Congress, particularly given the whole HYDRA situation.  A whole lot of the current operating freedom the Avengers had boiled down to the fact that Captain America ran the team, and President Ellis (and the American people at large) respected, trusted, and admired Captain America.

“Don’t worry about it,” Natasha said again.  Tony looked up at her.  “Things change.  Nothing lasts forever.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Tony griped glumly.

“Things always work out in the end,” she added matter-of-factly, dropping a hand to his shoulder.  He looked up at her.  She smiled, and this one was soft and genuine.  “They do.”

The rest of the breakfast went on.  The good mood quickly returned.  Soon everyone was laughing and joking like that little anxiety blip hadn’t happened.  Well, for them.  Bucky hung back a bit, because he couldn’t shake that uneasy feeling of not belonging.  He still didn’t know why it came on so hard and so suddenly.  He sat and pretended to listen as Steve and Tony talked shop, as they laughed and teased their way through some plans Tony had for the quinjet to improve its stealth systems.  He felt Steve glance at him once or twice, felt his concern, but he couldn’t shake his malaise, as dumb as it was.  Everyone else was having a good time, enjoying this moment as a goddamn _family_ , and he couldn’t get comfortable enough to settle in.

Finally the rest of the team started to disperse.  Food was put away into the refrigerator.  Dishes were piled into the sink.  Bucky busied himself with cleaning up as the others went about telling each other their plans and getting ready to go their separate ways for the day.  He was told multiple times by Natasha and Clint and Sam that he didn’t need to handle the mess, that there was a whole staff devoted to cleaning, but he just smiled away their concern and told them he didn’t mind.  He didn’t, in truth.  It was something to do to keep his hands occupied and his mind from thinking too much.  In the back of his thoughts, as he watched Thor clap Peter too hard on the shoulder and Wanda lean up to kiss Vision’s cheek and Sam throw an arm around Clint as he laughed, he could picture home.  Brooklyn, during dinner in his family’s apartment, only he was at the table.  _He_ was laughing and talking and comfortable, and his folks and his sisters and Steve and Steve’s mother were there, and everything felt natural.  Or during the war, during a rare and precious moment of downtime with the Commandos gathered around the campfire…  He used to be the one talking and laughing and hugging his friends and being so carefree and affectionate and charismatic.

Christ, he wanted that back.

A little bit later, the Avengers were all gone, and the room was starkly quiet.  Steve was the only one left of course, and he was bringing the last pile of used plates over to the sink.  “Sorry.  I had no idea sending you out here for food would lead to that.  I suppose I should have seen it coming.”

“It’s fine, Steve.  It was nice.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” Steve reminded again, eyeing the sink full of suds and the stack of clean dishes to the side.

Bucky grinned and rinsed another plate.  “Come on.  Both your ma and mine would roll over in their graves if they saw us leaving a mess for others to deal with.”

“True.”  Steve set the dishes down with a rattle and hunted around for a towel.  Bucky couldn’t help but watch him, watch the way his jeans hung a little too low and his muscles flexed under his shirt.  “But we do have a dishwasher.”

“Work that’s not hard isn’t worth doing,” Bucky declared, turning back to the sink.

“Quoting my mom’s not fair,” Steve said, and he picked up a dish from the drying rack (it was downright shocking Stark even had one of these) and started wiping the towel across the glistening surface. 

They worked in silence for a bit, Bucky washing each dish carefully, handing Steve those he finished.  Steve wiped them dry before putting them away.  It was comfortable enough, once more taking Bucky right back to their past, to their old, crappy place in Brooklyn where they worked side by side in the kitchen to cook and then clean up afterward.  Sometimes they’d play the radio, and sometimes they’d talked about their respective days or the neighborhood gossip or the coming war, but a lot of it was like this: silent, the bond between them alive and thrumming without a single word.

Steve wasn’t content with that today, though.  “You want to tell me whatever’s botherin’ you?” he asked gently.  It really was a question; Steve would never force him to do anything he didn’t want to.

He would relentlessly coax and prod him, though, into doing what was best for him, so avoiding the question was just prolonging the inevitable.  “It’s stupid,” Bucky grumbled, rinsing the last plate before pulling the stopper from the sink.

“I’ve heard stupid from you plenty of times in the past,” Steve said, reaching up to put a stack of plates away, “and never once complained.”

“You’re full of shit, Rogers.”

Steve grinned slyly at Bucky’s wan look.  “Come on.  Spit it out.”

For a second Bucky hesitated.  He knew Steve wouldn’t think any less of him for anything he felt, but it was embarrassing all the same because he also _knew_ it was dumb to have doubts like this.  “I just…  I mean…”  He faltered and looked down, watching the suds get sucked down the drain.  “I don’t…”

Steve’s hand fell to his metal shoulder.  “Come on, Buck.”

“Alright.  Fine.  I don’t know if I fit in here,” Bucky managed, grimacing as he quickly forced out the words.  Hurt and worry immediately flashed across Steve’s face, and his mouth fell open, but before he could speak, Bucky was surging on.  “Yeah, yeah.  It’s ridiculous as hell, I know.  And it’s not like I just got here or anythin’, and it’s not like I don’t know everyone, but…”  He didn’t know how to explain.  He didn’t even know why himself, though he was beginning to understand.  He took Steve’s hand off his shoulder and pulled him close.  “Last night was the first time I’ve been here as an equal.”

Steve shook his head.  “An equal?”

“You know what I mean.  Yesterday was the first time I was an Avenger.  And last night, I wasn’t just a victim you guys are helping to rehabilitate.  I wasn’t just some broken down, old POW–”

“Buck, you’ve never been that.”

“You know what I mean,” Bucky said again, a little exasperated.  “I wasn’t someone that you guys are taking care of all the time.  I wasn’t struggling or hurt or dissociated or – you know how it is, when you’re real sick and you barely come out of it and everyone treats you like they’re just glad to see you’re alive?”  Steve nodded.  Of course he did, better than anyone in fact.  “It used to be like that.  I’ve been sick, and last night I wasn’t anymore.  And I wasn’t even just your friend or your husband.  I was…  Out there on that battlefield, and at dinner last night, and this morning…  I was just _me._ ”

Steve’s eyes color with a little understanding.  “What’s so bad about that?”

That made Bucky feel ever dumber, not that that was Steve’s fault.  “Nothin’, I guess.  I don’t know, Steve.  Everyone here’s earned the honor of _being_ here.  I got here because I’m sleepin’ with the cap–”

“No, don’t you dare.”  Bucky looked away, ashamed.  There was a lot Steve tolerated about his recovery.  His tears and his anger and his grief.  The times he pulled away because he couldn’t bear even so much as Steve’s tender touch.  The times he lashed out in terror, when past traumas overcame the here and now.  Steve had been patient and understanding through all that, but he refused to abide by Bucky thinking lowly of himself.  “You’re here because you’re a hero.  You died serving our country.  _Plus_ all the times before that when you protected the Commandos, bailed out my ass when I got in over my head, saved innocents in the cross-fire…  All those suicide missions?  They weren’t actually suicide missions because _you_ were there, watching our backs.”

“Steve–”

Steve cupped his face.  “You deserve to be an Avenger.  You earned it, and you don’t have to prove anything.”  He shook his head.  “Did one of the others…  Did Tony–”

“God, no!  No.”

“Then…”

Bucky took Steve’s hands from the sides of his face.  “It’s just not so easy sometimes.  It’s nothing you do or that they do, nothing any of you ever did.  And Stark’s been a real class act.  He’s been great to me when he’s had no cause to and–”

“I know,” Steve replied.  “I know, and he’s done more for us than I can ever thank him for, and he tries real hard, but it’s only natural for him to struggle with this sometimes.”  He was coloring a bit in shame for worrying about how his husband and his best friend were getting along.

There was no way in hell Bucky was going to tell him that maybe he _should_ worry.  “Tony didn’t say anything, Steve.  _No one_ said anything.  It’s just…”

Steve winced.  “You know, you don’t have to do this.”  Bucky bit his lip and pulled away.  He didn’t want to hear it, because he _knew_ that.  Christ, Steve had said it every day since he’d recovered enough where they could actually consider Bucky joining the team.  Steve had always given him that out, made sure he’d been aware that he could take it, that he knew there was nothing wrong with retiring and living out the rest of his life in peace.  Of course, Bucky knew Steve way too well not to see that that offer scared the shit out of him, that Steve was lying down on the goddamn wire like he always did and prioritizing Bucky’s feelings and ignoring his own.  Steve wanted him out there with him.  He wanted Bucky at his side.  He wanted the Winter Soldier to have his back, and Bucky _knew_ that.  He could read between the lines before Steve even opened his mouth to tell him that he was under no obligation to go back out there and fight.

So there’d never been a choice.  Bucky couldn’t let Steve down like that.  Furthermore, he didn’t want to let _himself_ down like that.  He wanted to be an Avenger.  He had a lifetime of crimes for which he needed to atone.

“Bucky?”

“I know that,” Bucky said a little more harshly than he meant to.  He felt Steve stiffen just a bit.  He turned around and looked him in the eye.  “No one’s forcing me.  No one’s doing anything to me.  I still want to do this.  It’s just…  Fuck, Steve, I should be dead.  I should still be HYDRA’s monster, with all this darkness still in my head, but I’m not, and that’s because you – _all_ of you – took me in and cleaned me up and fixed my head and my body and my arm and showed me I could fix my heart.”

Steve was desperate to fix _everything_.  “You have, Buck.  You think they don’t see that?”

“They don’t know me,” Bucky replied.  “They don’t know who I was.”

“I do.”

“And you know I’m not that person anymore.”  Steve didn’t look pleased with that, not because he resented the truth but because he worried for how that made Bucky feel.   “I’m not the Winter Soldier anymore, either.”

“Bucky–”

“When it’s just you and me, I feel…  I feel certain.  I feel good.  I know I deserve you loving me.  But it’s like you said.  You _see_ me, Steve.  You always did, and you always can, and you always will, so it’s easy for me to be what I am with you.  That can’t work here.  I don’t know who I am to the team.  I don’t know what I am.”  Steve opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but he didn’t.  He didn’t because Bucky knew he couldn’t.  “And I don’t know that I can make that better right now, so like I said, this is hard.  It’s new and it’s awkward as hell and it’s hard.  And I have to figure it out.”

“ _We_ have to figure it out,” Steve corrected.  “Hey, you said we’re always doing things my way.  Doing it on my terms?  I lead, you follow?  So I’ll lead, and together we’ll get there.”

 _That little guy from Brooklyn too dumb not to run away from a fight._ Bucky smiled, but that unease tightened inside him.  He didn’t know why.  “Nothing lasts forever,” he said, thinking of what Natasha said earlier.

Steve smiled, suddenly kissing him.  His lips were warm, so right, and Bucky felt a rush of love loosening the knot.  He lost himself in the taste of Steve, in the strength and power against him, in the calm certainty of everything Steve was and always had been.  Steve pulled away after what felt like forever, and it took Bucky a moment to blink open eyes that had slipped shut in bliss.  He saw Steve’s eyes when he did, so fathomlessly blue.  “Some things do,” Steve murmured before taking another kiss.

Bucky laughed and pulled him as close as possible.  He completely, willingly, _freely_ could lose himself kissing Steve, and he frankly wouldn’t mind never finding himself again.  He’d kissed him a thousand times since coming back to himself, and he knew he’d done it a thousand times before that, many, many times HYDRA hadn’t entirely been able to erase, but every time felt new and incredible and Bucky knew he’d never get enough of it.  He opened his mouth as Steve deepened the kiss, chuckled as Steve smiled against his lips, pulled Steve by his belt loops into his hips.  Steve responded by pushing him back gently and trapping him against the counter.  He kissed at Bucky’s throat, little nips and suckles that drove Bucky crazy, and Bucky grabbed at his ass, squeezed, rolled their hips together, and this was pretty bold of them to be making out here in the commune kitchen, but it felt so damn good, and if Steve wanted him _again_ …

Who the hell was he to say no?

They weren’t going to get nearly that far, though.  “Captain Rogers.”

That was Friday.  With a groan, Steve abandoned torturing Bucky’s throat and leaned back.  “What’s up?”

“SHIELD is asking the Avengers to assemble.”

Steve didn’t move away, ducking his head instead and sinking into Bucky’s body in disappointment.  “Somethin’ tells me we just shoulda stayed in bed today,” Bucky mumbled, letting go of Steve’s rear to rub his back instead.

“Maybe,” Steve conceded.  He lingered a couple seconds more, happy and about as limp as Jello in Bucky’s embrace, and Bucky chuckled again, smoothing his hair.  Eventually Steve straightened and untangled himself from his husband.  “Continue later?”

Bucky wrinkled his nose at that.  “Later’s too far away,” he whined.  “Gettin’ through the debrief last night and then the dinner and all that…  Felt like I was gonna die before I had you again.”

“Romantic, but bullshit,” Steve teased.  Bucky pushed himself off the counter and right into Steve’s space, meaning to playfully shove him back, but Steve kissed him passionately and swatted his butt lightly instead.  Bucky grunted and Steve grinned mischievously.  “Come on.  It’ll be fine.  Time to go be Avengers.  You and me.  I lead, you follow.”

“Yeah?” Bucky said as they rushed out the door and raced for the stairs to get down to the armory.

“Yep.”  _Captain America and the Winter Soldier._   _Together._ Steve grinned.  “We got this, Buck.  What could possibly go wrong?”


	3. Chapter 3

_Everything._

Everything went wrong.

It all went wrong, and the unimaginable happened.

But Bucky couldn’t process that.  He couldn’t process anything at the moment.  He couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, couldn’t do anything more than struggle to run.  His heart was pounding, his legs clumsily moving, his hands scrambling to stay steady.  He had to keep up.  _He had to keep up!_

Ahead the foot of the stretcher smacked into the doors of the emergency room at Mount Sinai.  They slammed open, nearly knocked off their hinges from the force of it, and Sam almost toppled from where he was kneeling.  He didn’t, though, and his hands were pushing down, doing CPR, and he was terrified and counting, and–

 _“Move!”_ Natasha screamed as she led the way, plowing through the groups of people in the busy area.  There were dozens of folks, victims from the attack on the city as well as the average flow through a major metropolitan hospital, and they were all terrified to see the Avengers barreling toward them.  Natasha was pale, horrified, panicked, and the sight of Black Widow covered in blood and shouting had everyone scrambling to get out of her path.  “Move!  Come on, come on!  I need help!  I need help _now!_ ”

People came running, doctors and nurses.  They were white-faced, frantic, grabbing at the racing stretcher and pulling it into triage.  “What do we have?” demanded one of the doctors, a balding man who was tall, thin, and very clearly horrified.  “Jesus, it’s–”

 “Multiple severe lacerations to the chest and abdomen!” one the EMTs who’d been with them cried loudly to be heard over the din.  “Broken right femur with severe damage to the artery!  We couldn’t get the bleeding under control in route!  He’s in hypovolemic shock!”

“We need blood, as much as we can get!”

“Jesus…  What happened?”

“He fell!  At least thirty feet!”

“BP’s dropping!”

Bucky stumbled, nearly falling, but he managed to firm up his grip, pressing the bandage he was holding down even harder.  Someone told him to keep pressure there, so he had to do that.  He had to.  He kept up and hung on and held on with steady pressure.

It didn’t do any good.

“He’s v-tach!  We’re losing him!”

 _Nothing_ was doing any good!

“Come on!  Come on!”  Sam was pumping, the stretcher shaking as he knelt on it and performed chest compressions.  His eyes were narrowed, filled with terror, and sweat dripped from his filthy face.  “Don’t you do this, Steve!  Don’t you fucking do this!  _Come on!_ ”

But Steve didn’t respond.  He couldn’t respond.  He hadn’t responded for even a second, hadn’t even come close to regaining consciousness, since he’d gone down.  He was so badly hurt it didn’t seem possible he could be alive.  His uniform was blackened, charred, and soaked through with blood.  His mangled right leg was so hideous that Bucky still couldn’t make himself look at it, at where they’d splinted the terrible break as best they could.  His chest was a mess of burns and wounds.  His hands were limp at his sides.  One was falling a little off the stretcher, and Bucky had this flash in his mind’s eye of holding it, of squeezing it, of crying and _begging–_

“We need you to step back!”  The voice sounded far away, like someone screaming across a noisy, chaotic room.  Hands were grabbing at Bucky’s arm, tugging at him, and it was all he could do not to lash out to get them off.  “Sir, you need to step back!  We have to get in there!  Step back!”

He stumbled and let go of the stretcher.  He caught a glimpse of Steve’s face as he did – just a glimpse – before he was pushed back harder, shoved out of the way, so the doctors could get closer.  Steve was hardly recognizable, covered so much in slick red and soot.  There was a puddle beneath his skull and neck.  _His head struck the concrete of the lobby.  His head struck the concrete._   There was a flash in Bucky’s mind of Natasha gasping in horror and pulling her hands away from Steve’s neck when she realized how serious it was, of Sam shouting like he was now, of so much red, so much that she had gagged, _so much–_

“Come on, Cap,” Sam begged.  He pushed harder and harder at Steve’s chest where his uniform was ripped open, pushing like increasing the insistence of his compressions could make a difference.  Tears and sweat filled his eyes, and they cut through the grime from the battle to drip onto Steve’s midsection where he was straddling him.  Sam didn’t even pause for a second to wipe his face.  “Please, please, please don’t do this…”

“How’s his breathing?”

“Decreased breath sounds in both lungs!  O2 sats are bad!”

 _The weak wheeze coming from Steve’s bruised lips._   That was all Bucky had been able to hear the entire flight here as they’d struggled to stabilize Steve.  There was a tube in Steve’s mouth now, down his throat, and one of the EMTs was squeezing a bag connected to it to force oxygen into Steve’s body.  They had to do that because Steve wasn’t breathing anymore.  Sam was atop him performing CPR, _had_ been performing CPR without pause for minutes now since Steve’s vitals had started plummeting on the jet, because Steve’s heart wasn’t beating right anymore.  They were trying to save his life.

Because Steve was dying.

And Bucky just watched.  He still couldn’t speak.  He couldn’t think, couldn’t feel.  He could hardly follow the wail of monitors and machines screaming in alarm, the rush of frantic and frightened voices. 

“I can’t get a pulse!”

“Captain Rogers, come on!  Stay with us!”

“Jesus, we need the OR right now!  Go, go, go!”

And that was that.  They were moving the stretcher again, with Sam still perched precariously atop it.  The huge flock of people and equipment was running with surprising speed and coordination, only this time, Bucky was left behind.  He was left standing there, frozen his spot, lost in a moment that didn’t seem capable of ending, as they took Steve away from him, just like that.

_As they took Steve._

In the seconds that followed, Bucky couldn’t process that, either.  Not that Steve was gone.  Not the mess on the floor where the gurney had been, blood and soaked bandages and ripped wrappers.  Not the noise of the emergency room around him, the way it was tentatively returning from a state of dead silence like everything had been too scared to move on.  Not the people gathering behind him, the nurses and doctors and other patients who just happened to be here, whispering and wondering, and phones were coming out, and–

Natasha was suddenly in front of him.  Her red hair was in complete disarray, and her face was smudged with soot.  Her eyes were filled with tears she was holding back.  “Let’s get you out of here, alright?  Let’s just–”

Clint came running in.  He was winded, bursting through the doors to the stairwell.  He’d piloted the quinjet from the battle, gotten them here so fast (some part of Bucky knew it had only been a few minutes that they’d flown from Midtown, but it felt like a lifetime ago).  At seeing Natasha breathless and stricken and Bucky staring emptily at the blood, the archer grimaced and terror shone in his hazel eyes.  “Where–”

“Not here,” Natasha said firmly but not cruelly.  She cupped Bucky’s face, turning it so his eyes were forced to meet hers.  He tried to look at her, but it was so fucking hard to _focus._ All he could see was Steve getting hit, Steve falling, Steve striking the lobby floor, Steve lying there and _not getting up…_   Steve on the quinjet, bleeding from _everywhere_ and not responding at all as his friends and teammates, as his _husband,_ begged for him to hang on, to fight, to _wake up–_

“James.”

Bucky blinked the awful images away and saw Natasha’s eyes.  “Not here,” she murmured again, staring, holding his gaze.  Grounding him.  “Come on.”

Chaos was breaking out all around them.  The queer stasis that had held everything back seemed to simply snap, and people were crowding, asking questions, wondering what was happening.  Their attention was unbearable, an awful shudder crawling up Bucky’s back, and the sensation of exposure and vulnerability was enough to shatter his calm.  He wanted to scream, to run, to fight.  To kill them if they got close.  He wanted to get to Steve.  He _needed_ to–

 _No._   He sucked in a deep breath, made himself breathe though he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped, and he nodded.  Natasha nodded, too, and then she was fast, cutting through the growing crowd and leading the way once more.  Uselessly Bucky stared after her a second or two before he heard Clint’s voice rising above the cacophony of the ER to tell everyone to back off and let them be.  The archer nudged him gently, carefully.  Bucky jerked, and his legs started moving seemingly of their own accord.  His filthy combat boots tracked soot and dirt all over the gleaming white tile as he mindlessly followed.

The next thing he knew – that he was actually aware of – was a nicely decorated waiting room and Natasha gesturing to a chair.  He just gaped at the seat with its smooth, leather upholstery.  He had no fucking memory of getting here.  Had they taken an elevator?  Climbed up the steps?  Had they gone up at all or was this down or on the same floor or…

“You should sit,” Natasha softly advised, and she looked like she was holding herself together by the skin of her teeth.

Bucky shook his head.  “I don’t…”  He winced, looking around but not seeing a damn thing.  Sure, he recognized other chairs and couches, the gleaming coffee tables covered in magazines, the expansive fish tank glowing in one corner, the tall windows showing a bright, sunny, spring day, the colorful and pleasant décor meant to provide cheery comfort to terrified loved ones…  He saw it, but it meant _nothing_.  “I…”

Clint offered him a Styrofoam cup filled with water.  “Drink,” he ordered.  He, too, looked like he was barely holding his shit together.  “Might be a while.”

For some reason, those stupidly obvious words cut through the dissociation holding him captive.  They were in a waiting room because they had to wait.  They had to wait because the doctors were trying to save Steve’s life.  Steve was hurt because he’d fallen during the fight.  The blood on Bucky’s hands, on his uniform, that he could _taste…_   Point A led to Fact B, and Fact B was connected to Conclusion C, and it all made sense, but it didn’t seem real.  It _couldn’t_ be real.

The chair felt real enough under him, though, as he finally and stiffly sank into it.  The water tasted real and good as he took the cup with shaking hands and sipped.  It washed away the flavor of ash and blood a bit (apparently he’d gotten a cut on the inside of his cheek, and he wondered how, because he hadn’t taken any hits really, at least not to the face, so maybe he’d bitten himself?  Bitten down hard when Steve was bleeding and bleeding on the gurney in the jet).  And the sunlight was real and bright, and the sight of Clint walking away and pulling his phone out of his tac pant’s pocket looked right, and the sound of him talking into it also seemed true, and–

“Easy.”  Natasha’s voice cut through the haze in his head, and he turned to see her crouching at the side of his chair.  “Here.  Let me take that before–”

It was too late.  Bucky felt something cold and wet seep into his pants at his knee, and he looked down to see he’d crushed the cup without even realizing it.  Water was dripping from his metal fist in a steady stream.  “Sorry,” he mumbled, mortified.

Natasha somehow got the remains of the cup out of his hand, which probably would have been pretty daunting to anyone else (and maybe it was to her, too.  After all, even this new arm was still nothing but a weapon, and so was he).  “It’s not a big deal.  Take a breath.”

Suddenly he just couldn’t.  His throat closed up, and his heart started pounding in his chest in a way it hadn’t for seventy years.  Panic pulsed through him like acid, and he felt sick.  “Oh, God,” he moaned.  The room spun.  His stomach clenched and roiled inside him.  His eyes burned, and he blinked and blinked but all he could see was blood and Steve’s lax face covered in it.  “Oh, my God…  Oh, God.”

_Please, no…_

“Easy,” Natasha implored again.  Her touch was light, tentative, and not entirely welcome as she grasped his arm.  He stopped himself from pushing her off but only just.  In the beginning of his recovery, whenever he’d lost his composure he hadn’t been able to tolerate anyone touching him.  It brought back too many memories that at the time were already too close, memories of hands holding him down and forcing him into the chair and causing him so much pain.  As he’d come back to himself, Steve’s touch very quickly became necessary.  He’d clung to it when the panic attacks and nightmares came close, anchored himself in it.  It was only recently that the hands of others, Sam and Natasha and Wanda mostly, had become something he could accept.  When he wasn’t so riled, that was.  When he wasn’t so terrified and broken open.

He felt like he was falling all over again, falling from the train, only losing Steve would be worse than seventy years of hell.

“It’s alright,” Natasha swore.  Bucky swallowed and sucked in another breath, a shudder working over him.  Natasha’s hands got bolder, running up his arm to grasp his shoulder.  The sensors of his metal arm registered her light touch, but his brain couldn’t so easily connect that sensation to the idea of comfort.  That wasn’t something natural for him anymore.  He’d learned to do it with Steve, because, again, the necessity of it, but also because _everything_ with Steve had become natural and easy again.  This here and now was a struggle.

And Natasha saw it.  Of course, she did.  “It will be.  I know it will.  Steve’s strong.  You know how strong he is, how tough.  He’ll be okay.”

Didn’t she realize he’d lived a whole other lifetime telling himself that?  That Steve was tough as nails for being so little and so skinny?  That he could get through this bout of pneumonia or that deadly fever or this winter full of the flu?  That his bad heart and bad lungs and bad back wouldn’t do him in because his soul was stronger than anything?  Didn’t she _know_ that, that Bucky had convinced himself of all this time and time again when they were kids, that he’d prayed and reasoned it out and made himself believe?

Clearly not because she kept going.  “The doctors will patch him back up.  He’ll be alright.  I know it.  The serum will save him.”  _The serum._   Bucky closed his eyes.  _The serum._   “The serum will heal him.  It always does.  Every other time he’s taken a hit, he’s been fine.  He gets through it.  He’s _been_ through it before when…”

She didn’t finish.  It took his beleaguered brain a second to figure out why.  “When I almost killed him,” he said.

Natasha grimaced, and Bucky looked away.  He had to.  He knew how difficult it had been for the others when Steve had been hurt after the battle in Washington, DC a couple years back.  For Tony, Natasha, and Sam especially, it had been a harrowing experience.  Natasha went on with her assurances.  “He was alright then, and he’ll be alright now.  The serum will do what it’s meant to, and he’ll…”  Her voice cracked.  Even she wasn’t strong enough to lie.  Even she wasn’t strong enough to make light of wounds like Steve had.  They’d both seen too much war not to recognize mortal damage when they saw it.  Still, she took a beat to gather herself, and she continued again.  “He’ll pull through.”  The words were little more than a shaky whisper.

Clint ended his call – probably with SHIELD, if the hushed, hard conversation was any indication – and turned around.  For a second, he just stood there, like he didn’t know what to do.  He looked impotent all the sudden, without his bow and his quiver and guns, and that was dumb as hell because Bucky saw him unarmed and unguarded more often than not nowadays, but right then it was all he _could_ see.  How strange Clint seemed without his weapons.  The archer tipped his head back, swallowed, and shivered like he was snapping out of something unpleasant.  “Fury’s on his way,” he quietly declared, and then he was walking closer.  He didn’t offer anything more, not even his own attempts at solace.  Bucky didn’t know if that was because he didn’t want to or couldn’t.  Didn’t matter either way.  He was grateful all the same for being spared.

But he wasn’t at all grateful for the silence that crept in.  He hadn’t noticed until now, but the big flat screen mounted on the opposite wall was quietly playing the news, and the news was, of course, covering the attack.  His eyes went to it, settled on it, seeing it without focusing really, until the shaky camera darting from the Avengers to the vicious, purple-skinned aliens invading the city focused on the burning shopping center in Midtown.  During the fight, Bucky had seen that from a different angle, a sniper’s vantage from the atop the building across the street.  The mall had a huge glass exterior, designed for an open, airy experience, and it gave him the perfect view of the multiple interior levels and the lobby.  Steve had positioned him there for that reason while Natasha and Steve himself had evacuated the busy area.  He’d provided cover, as had Clint atop another rooftop.  It had been their job to keep the fight off the civilians as Captain America and Black Widow had escorted them from the engagement zone.  It had been their job to keep an eye on the number of hostiles in the area.  It had been _their job_ to call out attacks, to give the Avengers guidance in controlling the fight and keeping it contained.  It had been Bucky’s job to keep Steve safe so Steve could focus on keeping the people safe.

And he’d failed.

On the screen the jumpy, distorted image twisted about, but the amount of fire and wreckage all around was staggering.  One of the evacuees from the shopping center had obviously filmed the chaotic, terrifying moment, had turned around to the mall behind as others in the crowd shouted, had caught the split second where Steve, fighting on the third floor of the mall, got overwhelmed.  It was playing right now on the goddamn TV in all of its awfulness.  Steve was protecting a small group of people who’d been left behind in the first couple sweeps through the area.  They were screaming, though on the video that was distant and muted, and they were cowering behind Steve, though that was a blur, too.  The aliens knocked Steve back, a whole group of them, and they raised their weapons, and Steve was trying to get his shield up, but he couldn’t defend himself, and just like that…

Bucky averted his eyes with a jerk.  He couldn’t watch.  He didn’t need to, because the awful moment was burned into his mind’s eye.  The weird green blast of the gun, mostly striking Steve’s shield, and Steve stumbling back, back, _back_ just a couple steps, smashing through the glass barrier of the railing and falling down into the lobby, falling, falling, _falling–_

Hitting the debris on the floor of the lobby hard and not getting up.

“Jesus.”  Clint’s strangled whisper cut through the utter silence.  He walked over to the TV.  “How the fuck do you turn this fucking thing off?”  The image had switched to a newsroom, to a stern, worried face talking about breaking news, events that had happened just minutes ago, and Bucky felt dizzy.  Clint growled and hunted for a remote and then for a power button and finally got frustrated and jumped up to grab the power cord and yank it from the wall.

The silence that followed was worse than before, deep and endless.  Clint was motionless another moment before stalking across the waiting room and sitting stiffly in another chair.  He scrubbed dirty hands through his hair.  “Jesus,” he whispered.

No one moved after that.  It was an uncomfortable, throbbing stillness, and Bucky drifted in it.  He felt on the edge of a very deep, dark hole.  That news clip, the video from the fight…  The things he’d managed to dismiss until now were prodding at him, insistent and vicious and cruel.  Natasha was pacing and then sitting beside him and then pacing again, nervously fidgeting in a way of which Bucky had never thought her capable.  Clint, on the other hand, was as still as a statue, staring blankly at the carpet like it had the most intricate and interesting pattern ever.  Time went on and on, each second infinite, and Bucky felt like he was falling, too.

But then there was noise down the hall, and he snapped out of it.  Adrenaline jolted over him as he jumped to his feet, and for a second, HYDRA’s training battled with common sense, with who he was now.  This happened sometimes, though rarely in recent months, and it was always hard to overcome.  The Winter Soldier still battled for dominance.

He won, though. He was too terrified for Steve to be anything other than Bucky.

Tony and Wanda came in the room.  They’d obviously run here, both of them sweaty and a little winded.  Tony was out of his armor, dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing that morning.  A few bruises and cuts marred his face.  Wanda was more disheveled, her cheeks sooty from the fight but otherwise unharmed.  Her long hair was limp on her shoulders, thick with ash, and her eyes were wide.  “Where…”

“In surgery,” Natasha said quietly.

Tony just stared at her.  At Bucky beside her.  “How…”  The look of fear in his eyes was unfathomable and somehow becoming even more horrified as his gaze slowly dropped down their bodies, as he took in the blood on them both.  The blood all over their tac suits and hands that neither of them had washed.  Tony swallowed, like he couldn’t get the words out.  “How bad is it?”

Natasha glanced at Bucky, but Bucky couldn’t make himself look at her.  “It’s bad,” she whispered.

They both reeled with that for a moment.  What little color Wanda had before utterly vanished, and she slowly sank into a chair, eyes huge and vacant and filling with tears.  Tony, on the other hand, seemed to be reeling, and a storm of emotion was clearly battering him and whipping him about.  He just stared a moment, as if he couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing.  Hope failing seemed to be a visible, almost tangible thing.  Then he shook his head and started jittering and pacing.  “The SHIELD docs are here.  They’ll, um…  They’ll know what to do.  And Bruce will come soon.  Should be here really soon, and he’ll…  He can help.”

Bucky didn’t know how the hell Bruce was going to help.  Bruce was smart, of course, as smart as Tony if not more so when it came to genetics and biology, but science didn’t fucking matter much when there were too many holes in your body to keep your blood inside you where it belonged.  Still, Natasha seemed a bit comforted.  “Everything secured?”

Tony raked a hand through his hair and walked around the waiting room like it was a pen, checking out its corners.  “Yeah!  Yeah, it’s over.  Thor and the others are, um…  They told me to come here.”  He said that like he needed justification for being with them rather than the rest of the team finishing up the response to the attack.  “They got it in hand.  The evacuation finished up just as…”  He couldn’t finish.  “Fucking bastards.  They were fucking using the civilians against us!  They went after them!”

“I know.”

“Who the _fuck_ does that?”

That was stupid.  A lot of their opponents did that.  Tony was stricken beyond making any sense.  “What did they want?” Natasha asked.  “They didn’t seem to be after anything other than a fight, but–”

“I don’t know!” Tony said breathlessly.  He sounded on the verge of tears.  “I don’t…  Christ, how…”

Abruptly he stopped.  Bucky didn’t notice that for a second.  He’d tuned out Tony’s frightened babbling, staring instead at his hands where they were clasped together in front of him with his elbows braced on his knees, wondering at the space where his wedding ring should be on his left hand.  He worried where it was before his brain managed to remind him that it was where it _always_ was: on the chain with Steve’s dog tags, tucked into his combat uniform.  He could _feel_ it there, pressed against his skin between his sternum and the tight Kevlar and foam padding of his top.  He had it.  _Thank God._   That made no fucking sense, to feel so relieved because of course he had it.  He never took it off, but…

Suddenly he looked up, feeling someone’s eyes on him.  _Sam._   He stood there in the hallway.  He, too, was stained with blood, Falcon’s black and red tac suit stiff with it as it dried.  His hands were shaking, and his face…

“Sam?” Natasha gasped, rushing over to him.  Wanda turned, rising from her chair, and Tony frowned, swallowing over and over again like he wanted to say something but his mouth was too dry to speak.  Clint stood, too, his face pinched in worry.  Natasha shook her head.  “Sam.”

Sam was staring at Bucky, and there was such a look of horror on his face that Bucky’s world shrank down to his eyes, his bruised jaw, his lips shaking as they settled into a frown.  “He crashed before they got him into the OR,” he whispered.  Bucky’s blood turned to ice.  _Oh, God._ Sam dipped his gaze to his boots.  He looked haunted, burdened.  His hands shook harder, hands that had pumped Steve’s heart for him because Steve was too hurt for his heart to beat on its own.  But he’d failed, and Steve had _flatlined_.  “They got him back, but…”

“But what?” Tony demanded. 

Sam’s eyes filled with tears.  He was looking at Bucky again, _begging_ with his eyes.  Begging for forgiveness.  “They’re not sure he’s going to make it.”

Bucky looked away.  He squeezed his hands together.  It hurt.  His left hand was much stronger, much more powerful than his right, and he felt like he was pulverizing his own flesh and blood fingers.  The pain should have been grounding, but it wasn’t, not for him.  Not after the life he’d lived.  Vaguely he heard Tony arguing, heard the rage in his voice as he cursed and sputtered and did what Tony always did when he heard something he didn’t want to: denied it viciously.  “What – that’s fucking bullshit!  I just don’t understand!  How the fuck did this happen?  How’d he fall?  What the hell went on out there?”

Sam just stood and took the punishment as if he felt he deserved it.  “There were too many,” he said.  The words were weak, even if that was true.  “There were–”

“That’s _bullshit_ ,” Tony hissed.  Sam winced, though the anger wasn’t condemnation of him, per se.  They all knew that, but they all looked pained and devastated as Tony worked through the questions they were all asking themselves.  “The six of us, half as many strong as we are now, took on an _entire_ alien army a few years back!  Remember that?  And no one got hurt this bad!  What happened?  Somebody fucking tell me what happened!  Someone explain it!”

“Tony, you saw their weapons.”  Clint was getting angry himself.  Clint and Tony butted heads sometimes when things got stressed.  Bucky couldn’t ever recall things being as stressed as they were right now, at least not since he’d come into their lives.  “You saw what those things did!  They were killing people left and right!  We could hardly keep up!  You _saw_ it!”

Tony looked away.  Of course, he’d seen.  They’d _all_ seen.  The guns the aliens had used…  They’d looked like rifles, but whatever energy pulses they’d shot…  Well, to Bucky it had seemed like they’d been firing pure radiation.  The people who’d been struck had been vaporized instantly, turned into _nothing_ but a few flecks of ash.  Like they’d been _erased_ from existence.  It was something out of a sci-fi horror movie, only it’d been real and right in front of them.  Completely horrifying.

And with that being wielded against the Avengers, the situation had been unbelievably dangerous.  Sure, there’d been fewer enemies than during the Battle of New York (to Bucky’s understanding; Steve had more than once described the encounter as the six original Avengers against a massive horde of invaders), but the stakes had been unfathomable.  Keeping these monsters off the innocent people they’d targeted had been nearly impossible.

“How many people are dead?”  Sam’s voice was soft and filled with horror.  “How many?”

No one answered at first, but after the pause Wanda lifted her head.  She was slumped, and tears slipped silently down her cheeks.  “Dozens,” she whispered.  “Probably more.”

 _Jesus._   Bucky felt even sicker, wringing his hands together harder.  Not every fight ended in a victory.  Steve told him that, too, weeks ago when he’d first started training with the team.  The Avengers did the best they could, but against threats like these, the particularly dangerous ones that bordered on slaughter or mass casualties, the ones from other planets that wielded weapons against which their team couldn’t defend…  Victory could be a relative thing, because winning the fight usually came at a cost.  Collateral damage.  Victims caught in the cross-fire or the unfortunate souls they simply couldn’t save.  It was a different kind of scenario, one Bucky didn’t even remember all that well from the war.  This was the first time he’d faced the fall-out, the fact that even in the face of _winning,_ there could still be so much _loss._

Natasha was the one to say what he’d been thinking.  “It could have been worse,” she offered weakly.  She was trying to be strong, raising her gaze and keeping it firm and level.  “It could have been so much worse.”  Of course it could have been.

“You think _this_ is better?” Tony cried.  He was coming apart at the seams.  It was upsetting to say the least.  “You think Steve dying on a fucking operating table is better?”  Bucky flinched.  Tony glanced at him and paled.  “Sorry, I–”

“Yes, this is better,” Natasha returned, and now her voice had an edge to it.  She was out of her chair, literally and figuratively standing up for what she was saying.  “If those things had gotten the upper hand, there would have been _thousands_ dead, if not _tens_ of thousands.  The way they were targeting people they could have eradicated entire city blocks in minutes!”  It was clear Tony wanted to argue but couldn’t.  “Our first priority is always containment and evacuation, Stark, and you know it.  We did _exactly_ what we were supposed to do, what Steve wants us to do.  He knows the risks better than _anyone._ ”

Bucky wanted to say something, too, because hearing that fucking _hurt._ Not because it wasn’t true but because _it was._   It was here, and it had been back during the war and even back when Steve had been a sickly stick of a kid planting himself directly in the path of bullies with nothing but his heart and his will to shield him so that other kids could get away.  This was who Steve was, what he did, what he’d always done. 

But it hurt so much.  Tony gasped something that might have been a sob.  “How did this get so out of control?” he moaned.  Bucky blinked back his own tears and saw him staggering into a chair.  Tony collapsed heavily into it.  He buried his face into his hands.  “I just…  I…”

“What’s happened?”

Bucky turned to see Thor burst into the waiting room.  It was always strange to see the Asgardian dressed in his battle attire; Bucky was so used to him lounging around the complex in sweats and jeans and hoodies, so the cape and the armor and the hammer clenched at his side seemed misplaced.  With him were Bruce and Peter, and Peter, too, was still in his combat suit, which also seemed strange.  It somehow made him look younger, the hopeful expression plastered all over his face notwithstanding.  “Is Cap okay?” the kid asked, pale and eyes wide and hair mussed.  “Is he?”

“Tell me he is well,” Thor implored, and there was a hint of desperation there.  Steve had never said anything in particular, but Bucky had always gotten the impression that there was a deep bond between the God of Thunder and Captain America.  He supposed it had something to do with how they’d both been men in a strange time and place when the team had formed.  Theirs seemed to be an easy friendship, and Bucky really appreciated that Thor was _solid_ , uncomplicated and simple in a good way.

Right now Thor looked frustrated and frightened that no one was answering him.  “Tell me he is well!”

Still no one said a thing.  Even Sam, the one who always so ready with a calm, encouraging comment, was silent.  He walked more into the waiting room and settled into a chair in the corner.  Guilt was visibly crushing him, like this was somehow his fault.  Seeing Sam so desolate and broken cooled Thor’s ire, and he grimaced, whispering what sounded like a prayer to the Allfather.  His eyes went to Bucky, and Bucky could hardly stand the weight of his gaze.

“They’re doing everything they can,” Clint finally declared.  “Gotta wait is all.”

Bruce grunted.  He was dressed in one of his many post-mission sets of clothes, plain gray trousers and a well-worn plaid, button-down shirt.  “I’ll…”  He walked through the waiting room, taking stock more of the group than anything else.  For disliking personal contact and avoiding drama, Bruce was damn observant of those around him.  He dropped an awkward hand on Tony’s shoulder, one that was probably meant to be comforting.  Tony jerked before closing his eyes and patting it gratefully.  Bruce sighed.  “I’ll go see if there’s anything I can help with.”

“SHIELD’s already got their medical people here,” Clint said.  “Fury said they were handling it.”

Bruce waved him off and determinedly headed down the hospital corridor to the surgical suite.

There really wasn’t much to do after that other than wait.  Rhodes and Vision were the last of the team to arrive, and they did so silently.  That only added to the solemn, tense misery that had the room in a chokehold.  Rhodes went to sit beside Tony, Tony who was bouncing his leg and jittering and fidgeting like mad.  Peter was on Stark’s other side, and he just looked lost and scared, like he wasn’t sure he belonged here.  He kept getting up and getting people coffee or water or soda, kept offering to run down to the cafeteria for food.  Nobody ever wanted anything, but Peter kept asking and giving all the same.  Vision didn’t say a thing as he stood beside Wanda.  She was quiet, burdened, and he was still as a statue and as stoic as ever.  Someone who didn’t know him as well as the team did might find his emotionless expression upsetting, but this was who he was.  He felt things, sure, but it was never obvious and always trumped by logic.

And the others.  Thor glowered and stood at the entrance like a sentinel.  Clint paced.  Sam didn’t move at all.  Natasha took a position at the window, arms folded over her chest, eyes a million miles away as she scanned the streets outside as morning became afternoon and edged toward evening.  And Bucky…  Vaguely he knew hours and hours were slipping away, each one of them excruciatingly slow, but he couldn’t focus on that or the world around him.  He couldn’t think to speak or do something more productive than sit and stare.  He couldn’t do _anything_.  He remained in the chair, stiff and aching, and he simply couldn’t move.  Couldn’t relax.  Couldn’t talk (though not one of them had hardly said a thing, let alone anything of substance, for what felt like forever).  He couldn’t think and couldn’t feel.  This was like a nightmare, the ones he had sometimes that were so vivid that it didn’t take much at all for him to _believe_ they were real.  Some of them were memories, memories mixed up in trauma and terror, so they had truly happened, and they were awful.  Steve was always there to pull him back when they got him, to fight them off so Bucky could escape.  Steve was there when he woke up screaming, when stumbling to the bathroom to puke and scream himself clean was the only answer to the stench of violence and the blood he could swear was covering his hands.

There was blood coating them now, _Steve’s blood,_ and Steve wasn’t there to make this better.  Steve wasn’t there to calm him and wipe away his tears and hold him close.  Steve wasn’t there to tell him he loved him.  Bucky’s heart pounded and pounded.  It hadn’t stopped since he saw Steve fall, no, since he saw the bastards corner Steve on the third floor of the mall with no way to go but down, since he _saw_ that and knew there was nothing he could do but scream Steve’s name.  He felt like he was toeing the line of a panic attack, cold sweat tickling at the small of his back and at his hairline, and he couldn’t get his breathing to stay steady.  He couldn’t stand this.  All the minutes in his life he’d spent perfectly still…  Gun in his hand, watching, waiting for the ideal shot.  He had incredible patience and endurance but not for this.  Never for this.  He’d never tell anyone, never, ever tell Steve, but there were times when things got hard that he wished for the blankness of HYDRA’s programming.  Maybe that made him a coward, but it was so much easier to handle the horrors of life when he didn’t have to think about them or feel anything, when the world was reduced to a target and his finger on a trigger.

When he didn’t have to be afraid.

God, he was afraid.

The blood was dry on his hands now.  He should go wash.  Natasha and Sam had sometime over the last hour or so, but he hadn’t.  It was crusting around his nails, coating the groves between the plates of his cybernetic hand.  Seeing that brought back too much, how his hand looked after he’d maimed and murdered and tortured, HYDRA’s techs cleaning it and complaining about how dried blood gummed up the tech…  He shivered and clutched the hand to his chest, over where his heart was still racing so hard.  He could feel the lump there beneath his combat suit.  Steve’s dog tags.  His wedding ring.  He pressed harder, driving the edge of the little metal plates into his chest until it hurt.

Suddenly there was movement to the side by the room’s entrance.  Bucky’s heart leapt, and he jerked in his seat, but it was only Wanda.  She was unfolding her legs from beneath her and getting up, coming to him, crouching in front of him.  Maybe she should have been scared of him; fuck, he was scared of himself like this.  She wasn’t, though.  She reached up and carefully took his left hand, tugging until her gentle pressure had him relaxing.  Then she simply sat next to him, wove their fingers together despite the blood, and held it.  Bucky stared at where their fingers were interlocked, at how she rubbed her hand over his in a comforting, rhythmic sweep.  It felt good, something on which he could anchor himself, so he did.  He slowly relaxed a bit, and she met his gaze with a small smile.  He gratefully nodded and tried to concentrate on her touch, on his own breathing, on centering himself like she’d taught him many times before.  _Just breathe.  Settle down.  Breathe._

It felt as if an eternity slipped away like this, but it wasn’t.  Not long after she came to pull him back, there was the shuffle of footsteps outside in the corridor.  Everyone in the room heard it and abandoned their tense, worried thoughts.  Suddenly, after so long, a few doctors appeared in the entrance to the waiting room.  Fury was with them, and he didn’t look pleased, his lips taut in a frown and his one good eye steeped in concern.

Not that Bucky could really pay attention to him.  He sprung to his feet instantly, devouring the distance to the doctors in a couple huge strides.  He felt everyone else coming behind him, a whole goddamn crowd of superheroes, but he couldn’t care about that, either.  He couldn’t care about anything other than Steve.  “Is he okay?” he asked.  His voice was hoarse and twisted in barely controlled panic.  “Is he?”

The one doctor, a pretty young woman with dark skin and kind eyes, appraised him sympathetically.  “Mr. Barnes, we can discuss Captain Rogers’ situation in private if you wish.”

Bucky couldn’t give a damn about that.  “Just tell me what happened,” he begged.  His heart was pounding again, and there didn’t seem to be any air to breathe.  “Tell me he’s okay.”

The young woman glanced at an older man and another woman behind her.  They were dressed in different scrubs with SHIELD ID badges on lanyards around their necks.  Clearly these were the doctors Fury had sent over.  The younger doctor turned back to the group.  “He’s okay,” she said.

Bucky felt like he’d been punched in the gut.  Relief burst over him so violently the world grayed out, and he would have stumbled if not for Clint’s hand on his shoulder.  Behind him he heard Natasha gasp a stifled sob and Wanda breathe a prayer as she sagged into Vision’s side.  Sam tipped his head back to hide tears and Thor broke out in a huge grin, grabbing Peter to squish the life out of him in a bear hug.  Rhodes threw an arm around Tony.  Tony himself was staggering a bit, leaning into his friend for support.  “Jesus Christ…” he whispered, shaking like hell.  “Oh, God…  Fuck, thank God!”

“He _will_ be okay,” the doctor corrected, looking over the group.  If she was intimidated by who her patient was and to whom she was therefore speaking, it wasn’t obvious.  “Don’t misunderstand.  His injuries are extensive and very serious.  Captain Rogers suffered multiple cardiac events due to shock during the surgery before we were able to stabilize him.”

“But you stabilized him,” Natasha said, clearly wary of the answer.

One of the other doctors nodded.  “Yes.”  Natasha closed her eyes to that and looked down.  “We were able to stop the internal bleeding and repair his right leg.  The impact from the fall caused some major chest and abdominal trauma, which resulted in a fair amount of damage, particularly to his lungs.  His left lung was punctured by broken ribs and nearly collapsed.  One shattered rib ended up nicking the aorta as well.”  _Jesus._   Bucky wasn’t sure he could handle listening to this.  “Repairing the tear was tricky, but we got it done.  At any rate, he’s intubated at the moment and will be for the next few hours or so while we assess how well the serum’s handling the situation.”

“So the serum’s healing him,” Tony said, and the note of hope in his voice was undeniable.

“It is now,” the same doctor declared.  “Towards the end of the surgery his vitals stabilized and we could already detect some accelerated healing occurring.  His body began to stop its own bleeding, and that’s a damn good thing, otherwise–”

“No need to extrapolate, Doctor,” Fury interrupted.  He turned back to the young woman from the hospital.  “What else?”

She frowned.  “He also has trauma to his brain, mostly in the occipital lobe.  The back of his head,” she clarified.  “We can’t ascertain how serious it is at the moment without a CT scan, which he’ll have as soon as he’s more stable.  In the meantime, we’re monitoring his intracranial pressure.  It’s elevated but not yet to the point of emergency concern.”

“Trauma to his brain,” Sam said, grimacing.  “You mean his brain’s bleeding.”

Again, she frowned.  “In cases like these, bleeding and swelling can very quickly become a life-threatening situation.  Were this anyone else, it would be.”  Bucky felt sick.  Clint’s fingers dug into his shoulder.  “But with the serum, it’s more than likely Captain Rogers’ own body will stop the hemorrhage on its own.  His condition is not, at the moment, serious enough that we’re gravely concerned.”

“We have data from the crash of _Valkyrie_ that’s been analyzed over the last couple years since Captain Rogers’ recovery from the ice,” one of the SHIELD doctors said.  “Plus some logs from SSR when he took a bad hit during the war.”

The memory came to Bucky in a flash, like it had been triggered.  He could practically see Steve hurt, his hair matted in blood, a massive, hideous bruise covering half his face.  _1944.  Northern Italy._   The Howling Commandos had stormed a HYDRA stronghold there, blew it to hell, but a beam from the collapsing building had swung down and clobbered Steve on the side of the head.  They’d barely extracted him back to base, and the ride there had been a harrowing hour trapped in the back of a roughly bouncing jeep, Steve’s unconscious body sprawled between the terrified, hardened soldiers of their unit, Steve’s head in Bucky’s lap as Bucky held him and begged him over and over again to hang on… 

If the other Commandos hadn’t figured out before then that they were a couple, they sure as hell had that night.

Needless to say, Steve had survived.  He’d been unconscious for about a day with the medics and field surgeons helplessly hoping the “magic” serum would save him.  It had.  Bucky recalled now that that instance had probably been the first time the Commandos, SSR, the Army, and Bucky himself had seen what the serum could do, how strong and powerful it was, how much it could heal Steve.

And it was healing him now.  _It was healing him._

“We have every confidence in the serum’s ability to contend with the head injury.  Two independent neurologists are also working Captain Rogers’ case, and both of them believe it’s safe enough right now to wait and see what the serum does before we begin to think about more aggressive therapies.”

Bucky didn’t want to think about them, either.  “But he’s okay,” he said again.  That was all he needed to know.  “He’s okay.”

The young woman nodded.  “He should be.”

“Assuming the head injury heals, he will need to take things slowly.  Recovery from something like this will take quite a bit of time and probably some therapy, even for him,” another of the doctors said.  She smiled.  “He’ll be down and out for a while.  Even so, yes, he will be fine.”

 _Thank God.  Thank God._ Bucky’s mouth went dry, and his heart kept stuttering in his chest like it couldn’t keep a steady pace.  There were a million questions that he still had, but in the wake of the answer to the most important one, he could only think of one more thing to ask.  “Can I see him?”

“Of course,” the first doctor said.  “A nurse will come get you once he’s settled into the ICU.  Obviously you all can’t go back at once, but–”

“Right,” Fury interrupted.  “Thank you, Doctor.  Our staff can oversee Captain Rogers’ care.”  The young woman looked annoyed, and it seemed for a second she’d argue, but she probably realized it was a lost cause, so she only nodded and headed off down the hall.  To the other two doctors, Fury started saying things about immediately eliminating any samples the hospital might have taken of Steve’s blood, gathering any imaging records, taking even the waste from the surgery so there’d be no trace of _anything_ left before, having NDAs signed and preparing Steve for transport back to the Avengers’ facility…  It was just a buzz of words.

“Let’s get the media circus on this contained,” Fury quietly said to Natasha, Tony, and Clint.  “That video of Cap falling is already everywhere.  I want it gone.”

Even though the tension in the room had all but evaporated, Tony wasn’t about to let that one go.  “Why?  Don’t want the world seeing what he’s willing to do for them?  No need for another recording of him fucking _sacrificing_ himself for the good of mankind?  God, Nick, you piss me off sometimes.  It’s always about the PR.  Our goddamn _image_ you have to uphold.”

Fury narrowed his eye.  “It is about the image, Stark.  The integrity of the team matters a whole hell of a lot.  Our enemies the world over fear the Avengers, and, like it or not, Rogers has come to symbolize everything we stand for.  It started after New York, but since DC, since the Winter Soldier hearings–”  Bucky flinched.  He couldn’t help it.  “–it’s gotten stronger.  He’s the face of what you do, the sign to these assholes that we’re here and we’re standing in their way.  Seeing him go down does us no favors.  Plus, maybe you’ve noticed, but the people of this country, hell, I’d go so far as to say of the _planet_ , revere him.  He’s a symbol to them, too.  What happened is all over social media, all over the news, and it’s spreading like wildfire.  People are scared, practically starting to panic, and I’d like to get control of that before it gets worse.  Shut down the rumors before people start thinking Captain America is dead or dying when he’s not.”  He glared.  “That okay with you?”

Tony blanched.  It was obvious he was still shaken to his core and with good reason.  If something really happened to Steve, aside from losing one of his best friends, the mantle of leading the team would unquestionably fall to him.  “Yeah,” he said on a shaky sigh.  “Sorry.  I just…”

Fury’s expression softened.  “It’s alright.  I’d appreciate your help, actually.  Your AI can get ahead of the spread of all this crap.  Plus–”

“Press conference,” Tony murmured, wincing and nodding.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I can do that.  Whatever you need, I can do.”

 It was a strange thing to see, probably evidence of just how rattled even Fury was by all this, but the older man actually clasped Tony on the shoulder.  Tony nodded at the unspoken comfort.  Then Fury turned the conversation to business outside Steve’s injuries, and Clint and Natasha listened carefully for instructions.  They were Avengers first and foremost, but they were still SHIELD agents, too, and there was a lot of work to do with the clean-up and trying to figure out what the hell these aliens were and what they’d wanted.

Bucky couldn’t care less.  Over the many hours as they’d waited and waited and _waited_ , he’d been practically afraid to move.  Now, as he waited for someone to take him to his husband, he couldn’t fucking _stop_ moving _._   He paced and sat and shifted around and paced more.  He felt like a caged animal, trapped and fearing something terrible.  He knew the others were moving more now, too.  It was almost night time.  Thor had left to get a late dinner.  Clint and Natasha were already attending to their orders; they’d left with Fury.  Rhodes had left to go coordinate with the US military in gathering their data on the invasion.  Peter had gone off in search of food and a quiet place presumably to call his aunt and let her know that he was okay.  Apparently Vision was also no longer in the waiting room; Bucky didn’t know where he’d gone or why.  And Bruce hadn’t come back. Bucky imagined the medical team already had him busy trying to help anticipate how the serum would react to Steve’s injuries.

That left just Bucky, Sam, Tony, and Wanda.  None of them were really speaking to one another.  That was alright with Bucky; he didn’t think he had it in him to make small talk right now.  Sam just sat, and Wanda sat, and Tony fidgeted, and Bucky paced.  Eventually the silence got to be too crushing, and Wanda spoke.  “It’s not your fault.”

Bucky jerked and turned to her where she was cross-legged on one of the nice couches.  She held his gaze a moment and then watched Sam as the other man stared morosely out of the window.  At least Sam had gone to wash the blood off his hands and taken off his combat suit.  It didn’t do much to make him look less devastated.  “Not either of you.”  She bit her lip and glanced to Tony where he was leaning against the wall and nursing yet another cup of coffee and jittering.  Tony looked down the second their eyes met.  Wanda sighed and shook her head.  Her voice grew even softer.  “Not _any_ of you.”

None of them responded.  Frankly, Bucky didn’t know how to put words to what he was feeling, the deep-seated guilt settling into his bones because it _was_ most definitely his fault.  He was a sniper, the eyes and ears of the Avengers in the battlefield.  That was _his_ role, so that made it his job to have Steve’s back, to _see_ the aliens that were getting into the building and make sure Steve knew about them and pick them off and call out patterns and numbers and–

“Mr. Barnes?”  Bucky ripped around to see a nurse there, an older woman with a sad, grandmotherly smile.  “I can take you back when you’re ready.”

Relief had Bucky trembling again.  “When can the rest of us see him?” Tony asked frantically.

The nurse was calm but sympathetic.  “I can only take back two at a time until Captain Rogers is moved from the ICU, and it’s really up to–”

“It’s alright,” Bucky said.  His lips were moving without thinking.  _He_ wasn’t thinking.  He just wanted to go.  “He can come.”

Tony nodded gratefully, trembling just a bit in relief himself.  Sam looked a bit crushed and even guiltier, but he didn’t say a thing as he was left behind.

Bucky didn’t look at Tony much as the nurse led them back.  He didn’t look at anything at all, not the doctors and nurses watching with wide eyes as two of the Avengers, as Iron Man and the Winter Soldier, headed through the corridors of their hospital.  He didn’t look at the places they passed, the rooms of the intensive care unit, where the sickest and most seriously hurt patients were because they required constant, diligent care.  He didn’t look at anything but his boots, one moving in front of the other, step after step.  Stark kept glancing at him, maybe out of worry or compassion or fear or anger and blame.  Bucky just couldn’t make himself figure out which.

They reached the rear of the ICU, a quiet, more secluded place.  Steve was the only patient here; the adjacent rooms were empty and dark.  The nurse took them directly inside, opening a sliding glass door in a clear, glass wall for them.  The blinds were drawn on the sides of the entrance, blocking the view from the outside, so it wasn’t until Bucky hesitantly stepped over the threshold and inside that he could see Steve.

He hadn’t known what to expect, but this seemed so much worse.  Steve was lying in the hospital bed.  His torn, bloody combat uniform and under armor had been stripped away, replaced with a hospital gown that barely fit him.  That hardly hid the thick bandages that encircled his chest, clear as day beneath the flimsy fabric and streaked with red.  A coarse-looking blanket covered him up to his abdomen, but his right leg was atop it.  Bucky could hardly bring himself to look at that.  It was splinted and wrapped in bloodied bandages, the bolts and metal bars around it obviously keeping the bones in place as Steve’s body knit itself back together.  There were shunts in the flesh of his thigh, draining blood to keep the swelling down.  It was gruesome.  His helmet was gone, and his head was also bandaged, matted tufts of filthy blond hair sticking out around the white.  Of course, the mere presence of the ventilator was horrific, though Bucky had expected it and knew it was necessary to give Steve’s damaged lungs a chance to heal.  The machine was rhythmically swishing as it breathed for Steve, pushing oxygen through the white tubing that was situated around the bed and passing through Steve’s bruised, parted lips and into his body.  There were also sensors all over him and wires everywhere, on his head and on his fingers and taped to his chest.  The monitors around the bed were reading their output and displaying his vitals, but it was all gibberish to Bucky.

No, the only thing that made sense to Bucky was Steve’s face.  It took Bucky a moment to gather the courage to look at it, _really_ look, and it was hard to see Steve’s familiar, beautiful features under all the damage and inflammation.  It was hard to even recognize him.  Steve’s entire face was bruised and swollen, probably from the blow to his head.  His eyes were tightly shut.  It was difficult to tell if he was pain, but Bucky didn’t see how he couldn’t be.

Christ, how could he not be in terrible agony?

“Oh, fuck…”  He heard himself whisper that.  Or was it Stark?  Tony was standing right beside him.  Bucky couldn’t remember him coming closer, couldn’t remember walking from the door to the foot of the hospital bed at all.  The world felt like it was imploding, collapsing, falling entirely into this room and that bed with Steve lying in it.  _His_ world was coming down.  His life.

The Avengers’ life, too.  It was Tony who’d cursed, in fact, and it was Tony who moaned now and looked away, Tony whose eyes were welling.  “God…”

“He’ll be okay.”  Bucky blinked and focused blurry vision on Bruce, who was at the side of the bed.  He must have been there when they’d come in and Bucky hadn’t noticed.  Bruce had a tablet and he was tapping a few spots before lowering it and offering a comforting smile.  “He will be.  I know it looks bad but–”

“Christ,” Tony murmured.  He turned away from the bed entirely and wiped furiously at his cheeks, and Bucky didn’t know if he couldn’t stand the sight or couldn’t stand anyone seeing him cry like this.

Bruce frowned.  He set the tablet to the foot of Steve’s bed and came closer to them.  His knowing eyes shifted between them.  “I know it looks bad,” he said again, “but he’s going to be fine.  The serum is already doing its job.  Blood flow’s been reestablished to his foot, and the pulse there is nice and strong.  Between the initial x-ray and the one we took after the surgery, there’s already evidence that new bone is forming.  His vitals are improving.  His lung function is already better.  And the swelling’s down around the injury to his skull.”  Bucky swallowed through an aching throat.  He found himself looking at Steve’s head again.  Now he noticed stitches in his scalp.  “His intracranial pressure is high but it’s come down a bit since they got him into recovery.  They’re holding off relieving the pressure with Burr holes–”

“Fuck,” Tony whispered again, looking sick.

“–because they think he doesn’t need them.  With the way the serum works, the pressure should decrease a lot more.  He _should_ be fine.”

Bucky knew that, but seeing Steve like this…  It was hard to convince his heart that this was okay.  Temporary.

Tony was obviously thinking the same.  “What if he’s not?” he asked.

Bruce gave a small smile.  “He will be.  It’s just going to take time.  Once he regains consciousness, things will seem better.”

“And when will that be?”

“Depends on the serum but soon.  Might be today.  Could be tomorrow.  We’ve got a constant eye on the situation, and as long as things keep improving, there’s no cause for concern.”  His smile turned a tad rueful.  “The serum’s amazing stuff.  You know that.  If anyone else had taken that fall…”

Bruce didn’t finish, and Bucky was glad for it.  He didn’t want to think about how serious _would_ have been had it not have been Steve who’d taken the hit.  He’d never cared for that bullshit mindset.  Steve had always had this stupid, selfless tendency to treat himself like _he_ was a shield.  When he’d been small, it had been a real problem because he simply couldn’t take the hits the bullies and assholes had doled out.  He couldn’t afford to get beat up protecting other people.  Bucky had driven himself crazy worrying about it in their youths, that Steve would throw himself in the line of fire and get seriously hurt.  That had been why Bucky hadn’t wanted him to enlist, for God’s sake.  There’d been this massive incongruity between Steve’s heart and soul and the physical capacity of his body.  Steve had been so driven to be useful, to do the right thing no matter the cost to himself, that he couldn’t see just how _incapable_ he’d be as a soldier.

There’d been a moment or two after Steve got the serum, after Azzano, that Bucky thought his days of being afraid were over.  As Captain America, Steve seemed indestructible.  The serum fixed so much, erasing an entire lifetime of medical maladies and preventing new ones.  With it, Steve walked off injuries that would kill a normal man, healed from fatal wounds just like that without a single scar on his perfect skin.  His bones were harder, skin tougher, and the serum had provided him with a regenerative healing factor that was unparalleled.  _Everything_ , from Bucky’s little love bites and hickeys like before to knife and gunshot wounds to broken bones and burns to _this_ amount of damage, was gone like it had never been there at all.  And that was a blessing, but damn if it didn’t make Steve’s propensity to use himself like a shield _so much worse._

So, yeah, the fact it was Steve who’d taken that hit and thus the fall was ridiculously fortunate. _Steve_ , not Tony or Sam or Natasha or any of the civilians in the vicinity.  Maybe even Bucky himself couldn’t have survived the blast from that alien’s gun and the plummet from three tall stories into a burning lobby full of debris.  But it was _always_ Steve coming home banged up, Steve getting hurt so the civilians could get out, Steve battered and bruised, and Bucky was _still_ worrying about him.  Every time he went out with the Avengers and Bucky stayed back…  It was hell, and this was why.  Christ, how many times had Bucky patched Steve up after a rough battle, gotten him cleaned up and stitched up and iced up so he could sleep off the worst of the pain?  How many fucking times?

But he’d never said anything about it then, and he didn’t say anything now.  This was the nature of who Steve was, who _they_ were.  Steve never complained, and Bucky knew he shouldn’t resent what this life did to them sometimes.  It was all part of it.  This was why Captain America was a hero to the people of this world, why he was the symbol of everything the Avengers stood for, just as Fury said.  Captain America was a _shield._

Tony and Bruce had been talking while his mind had wandered.  They were finishing up now, and Bruce was walking toward the door.  He stopped at Bucky’s side.  “Don’t worry,” he said.  “All the evidence suggests the worst is behind us.  He’s in really good hands here.”

“Once he stabilizes more, can we move him back to the complex?”  There was no denying the anxiety in Tony’s voice.  “The med facilities there are good enough for this, aren’t they?”

Bruce considered that.  “Yeah, I think so.  But let’s not rush it yet.  He just needs time.”

Tony didn’t seem pleased.  Bucky felt him glance at him, like he was looking for support in getting Steve out of the hospital and into their own care as fast as possible, but Bucky couldn’t think about that right now.  He couldn’t think that far ahead.  Tony heaved a sigh.  “Okay.  Yeah, that makes sense.  They got this, right?  The serum’s doing its thing, and the doctors are doing their thing, and we’ll all do our thing, and this will be over in no time at all.”  He said this like he was trying to convince himself of it.  He was searching for validation and confirmation and comfort.

Bucky just had none to give.  The silence was filled with nothing but the swishing of the ventilator and the beeping of the machines.  Maybe to the others it was distressing (to Tony it definitely seemed to be, if the way he was fidgeting again was any indication), but Bucky wasn’t bothered by it.  His world truly was reduced to his husband, unconscious in that bed, so noise and talk and whatever else didn’t matter.  Steve’s bruised face and Steve’s battered body and Steve’s blue eyes, sealed so tightly shut.  He couldn’t think of anything else.

“Well, I’m going to go do whatever Fury wants me to do.”

Bucky turned and found that only Tony was there.  Bruce had left apparently, and Stark was on the side of Steve’s bed now, closer to the head of it.  Obviously he’d been standing there a moment, staring at Steve just as Bucky was.  Wrestling with his own relief and his own worry no doubt.  Bucky watched him work through his emotions a moment, feeling just a bit like an asshole.  Tony sniffed loudly.  “Press conference or whatever.  Get that done.  Get up there and tell everyone Steve’s doing fine.  You know, appease the masses before the world falls apart.  Little white lie never hurt anyone, right?  And it’s not a lie, because he’s going to fine.  He’ll be fine.  I know that.”  He grunted a strained chuckle.  Then he slumped a bit.  “Jesus…”  Bucky grimaced and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Tony was reaching for Steve’s limp hand. 

Something dark inside Bucky throbbed at that, an angry, possessive, protective feeling that was tangled up with the Winter Soldier.  Something else just felt worse at seeing how frightened Tony still was.  Tony was swallowing roughly, trying to hold it all back.  “You’re an asshole, Rogers,” he said after a moment, squeezing Steve’s hand tight between both of his own.  “Scaring us all like this.  You stupid, goddamn asshole…”

Bucky glanced back at Steve, expecting some sort of response before he could stop himself.  He expected Steve to argue and joke with Tony as he always did.  Expected him to open those beautiful eyes and shoot Bucky that sly, sweet smile.  All Steve did was lie there and bleed.

Tony sighed and set Steve’s hand gently back to the hospital bed.  He turned to Bucky.  “You want me to get you anything?”  It took Bucky a second to realize the other man was actually asking him that and waiting for a response.  He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he just shook his head.  “Food?  A drink?”  Tony’s sharp eyes looked him over.  “I’ll have someone bring you a change of clothes.”

Bucky winced and nodded.  “Thanks.”

“The others will want to come back.  Should I tell them no?”

Bucky shook his head.  “No, it’s fine.”

“You okay?”

That question also gave Bucky pause, both because he didn’t know how to answer it and because throughout all of this, no one had asked him that.  He felt strange about it, like he didn’t deserve to be asked, which was ridiculous.  He was Steve’s husband.  _He_ was.  In a way, that made him special, more so than anyone else at the moment.  Not that that should be important, but it was somehow.  _His_ husband had nearly died and was so badly hurt.  Therefore, he had the right to _not_ be alright.  He had the right to be scared, to be worried, to cry.  He had the right to dictate how this went.  His opinions and his thoughts and his feelings…  They mattered a lot.  That took him by surprise, and it didn’t sit well with him.  The old Bucky of seventy years ago would have accepted it instantly, maybe even relished the control it afforded him in processing something this upsetting.  But who he was here and now?  He didn’t feel worthy.

He was, though, wasn’t he?

“Yeah.”  It felt as though it had been hours since he’d spoken with any sort of certainty.  Maybe it had been.  “Yeah.  I’m okay.”  He turned back to Steve.  “As long as he’s okay, so I am.”

Tony was unreadable.  Tension seemed to tighten between them just a bit before the engineer nodded.  “Okay.  Hell of a second mission for you.  Welcome to the team?  Ugh.  Just what the fuck.”  Bucky grunted softly to that.  He didn’t know what to say.  “Okay.  Well, if you need anything, we’re, uh…  Yeah, whatever you need.”

“I’m okay,” he said again, softly, likely an oath.

Tony nodded.  “I’ll be back later.”  With a last look at Steve, his face all pinched in fear, he left.

Suddenly, after hours of constant company, Bucky was alone.  Strangely, thought, the ICU room felt smaller as he stood there, looking out the door where Stark had gone.  The adjacent blinds were still quivering a bit in his wake, but the door was securely shut.  That made Bucky feel safer.  A little bit, anyway.

He turned back to Steve, but it was so hard to look.  He found himself staring at the foot of the bed, agonizingly slowly working himself up to dragging his gaze higher on Steve’s body.  Steve’s _broken_ body.  Pain made his heart skip and shudder inside him, and for a terrible eternity, it was all he could do not to scream or cry or do _something_ to let this misery out.

_He’s okay.  He’s okay.  He’s going to be okay.  It’s alright._

_You’re okay, too._

Finally he felt his legs beneath him.  His hands on the foot of the bed.  He let go, walked to the side of the space on Steve’s left where the machinery wasn’t so thick.  Then he pulled up the one chair in the room, dragging it the short distance to the bed, and sat in it.  That came naturally, easily.  It was hauntingly familiar.  A vigil at Steve’s side when he was hurt and sick.  Bucky knew this pain, knew this fear.

But he knew Steve was strong enough to get through it.

He took Steve’s hand where Stark had left it limp on the mattress and wove their fingers together.  “Stark’s right,” he murmured.  “You really are an asshole for puttin’ us through this.  A real jerk.” Bucky smiled a bit.  A part of him wanted to cry, thought he should, but the tears didn’t come.  He’d tried never to cry in that past life when Steve was like this because he’d always known it’d be alright in the end.

He knew that now, too.

“You’ll be okay, Steve,” he promised.  Steve didn’t answer, couldn’t with the tube down his throat.  His fingers twitched a bit in Bucky’s grasp, though, twitched and tightened, and Bucky smiled.  He rubbed his metal palm over the back of Steve’s hand.  “The serum’s working.  It’s working.”  He kept thinking that, over and over again like a chant.  A mantra and a prayer and a hope.  A promise.  “It’s taking care of you, so you’ll be just fine.  You’ll be fine, sweetheart.  You’re gonna get better, open those baby blue eyes, darling, and then we’ll go back home.  You got that?  I’m right here, and I’m waitin’.”  He leaned down and kissed Steve’s fingers, squeezing himself as tightly as he dared.  “I’m waitin’ right here.”

And he settled in to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More art by AgentCoop!
> 
>  


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky could hear Steve breathing.

It was the sweetest sound.  It was strange, too, how when HYDRA wiped his mind of everything, that memory had stayed.  It had been one of the first things to come back, this and the blue of Steve’s eyes.  That was because, just like the clear blue of Steve’s eyes, the sound of Steve breathing had always been a constant in his life.  When they’d been kids, it had meant so much.  Back then Steve’s breaths been strained often, choked by asthma and disease.  They’d been so hard-won.  Bucky had spent countless nights listening as Steve slept, counting his shallow breaths from across the room or at his bedside, feeling such incredible relief at each one.  Wishing this or that bout of sickness would ease up and grant Steve a reprieve.  Hoping through each cough that the fit would pass and release Steve’s weak lungs from its torture.  _Praying_ the next breath would come, no matter how halting or shallow or weak.  Back then, Steve’s breathing had meant everything.

Then after the serum, Steve’s steady, deep, _healthy_ breaths were a sign of something else entirely: that Steve was well for the first time in his life.  The first couple of times Bucky had heard them, he hadn’t known what to make of them.  They were so different then from how they’d been Steve’s whole life, but even so they’d been beautiful.  New and incredible and unbelievable but so beautiful.  Nowadays Bucky could remember lying in Steve’s tent during the war, arms around him and face buried in between Steve’s shoulder blades, and staying awake again, though this time not out of fear but out of relief.  The serum had healed Steve’s weak lungs and damaged heart and bent spine and poor immune system.  The serum had fixed _everything._

And then again, after he’d been brought out of HYDRA’s hell and taken to the Avengers compound, when he’d been struggling so hard to _know_ himself again, he’d known the sound of Steve’s breathing.  It had been so familiar after a life spent learning it, a life that had once been defined by it and was defined by it again.  Steve’s breathing, like Steve’s eyes and Steve’s voice and the feel of Steve’s strong hands, so strong even before the serum, had grounded him.  Steve’s breathing still meant the world to him.

Bucky knew the sound of it better than he knew anything.  It was peace and security and love and life all rolled up into a soft whisper of air.  It was comfort and solace, and it had helped him fall asleep again as it had so many times in the past.  The sound of Steve breathing meant Steve would be alright, that he was safe.  It meant the serum was healing him, that the serum had healed him already.  It meant Bucky was safe, too.  It meant everything was fine.

_Everything’s fine._

But then the soft, steady sound of Steve’s breathing just stopped.  A loud noise took its place – _alarms wailing_ – and Bucky fell.  He hit something hard, scrambling in a cloudy, panicked haze because he wasn’t quite awake but not really asleep either.  It was all sensation without context, nightmares and memories meshing, and he was trapped in this awful in-between.

Then he snapped out of the daze, and reality struck with all the devastating power of a tidal wave.

“Sir, please!  Move!  Move!”

There were people in the hospital room, rushing in.  Nurses and doctors, a huge group of them.  And alarms were screaming, shrill and piercing, and Bucky was being pushed to the end of the hospital bed, and the chair beside the bed where he’d been waiting for the last few hours, where he’d been sitting and holding Steve’s hand, where he’d finally been lulled to sleep by Steve’s soft breathing, where he’d been waiting for Steve to wake up…  They shoved the chair out of the way so they could get to Steve.  They shoved _him_ out of the way, and normally that would have stoked the embers of the Winter Soldier inside him, but he was frankly too horrified to do anything other than stare.

He could only _stare_ as Steve had a seizure.

At least that was what looked like was happening.  The bed was rattling, quaking because Steve was shaking so hard atop it.  His limbs were flailing uncontrollably, his back arching, his undamaged leg mindlessly kicking.  It was as if he was trapped in a hellacious struggle against an unseen demon, one that was twisting and contorting his body.   The spasms were brutal, and they came one after another.  Bucky could hardly see him, couldn’t catch more than a glimpse of his face, as the others struggled with the sudden, terrifying situation.  “Captain Rogers!  Captain Rogers!”

“We need lorazepam!  Now!”

“Jesus, his pulse is through the roof–”

“BP’s skyrocketing!”

“Get away from him!  He’s too strong!”  That warning came too late, and Steve’s arm snapped up, tearing out his IV lines and sending blood and saline spraying.  The blow hit one of the nurses, a pretty young woman, and she staggered back with a bloody nose.  “Everybody get back!  Don’t hold him!  Don’t hold him!”

“Watch his leg!  Watch it!”

“He’s tearing his stitches!”

Bucky could see that, see red spreading all over Steve’s bandages and the hospital gown and the pristine white of the sheets.  Crimson stained the pillows by Steve’s head.  There was a flash of Steve’s face.  Blood was in his hair, dripping from his nose, from his _ears._   _Oh, God._   “What’s happening?” he whispered, wide-eyed and unable to think.

“Hurry with the goddamn lorazepam!” one of the doctors shouted.  “Come on, come on, come on–”

“Here!” a nurse cried, shoving a syringe at the doctor.  The man took it – Bucky somewhat recognized him from before, one of the intensivists handling Steve’s care in the ICU – and jabbed it into IV port still intact in Steve’s other arm.  Doing that was difficult, and he nearly got knocked back.  “Come on!  More!  I need as much as we can!”

The medication did nothing.  On the contrary, the seizure became more violent.  Bucky backpedaled as another nurse came around the bed, and more were charging inside the room.  “Someone call Doctor Banner!” screamed the lead doctor.  “Now!  Right now!”  The IV stand tipped and fell over, and the cart full of medications the nurses had brought closer ended up on the floor.  “What the hell, what the hell, what the hell…”

Steve went rigid, and the alarms screamed louder.  His pulse was dangerously fast.  Bucky’s heart was racing, too.  He shook his head in horror as Steve went abruptly still in the bed.  Everyone crowded close, a chaotic throng of activity.  “What’s happening?”  He heard himself ask that again, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper that was lost to the din.  “What’s happening?”

“Get a crash cart!” another of the doctors demanded.  “Hurry!  Hurry!”

“He’s not breathing!”

Bucky wasn’t, either.  He took a step forward, barely dodging a couple nurses running by him.  Now alarms were blaring throughout the ICU, a harried voice coming over the PA system in the corridors of the ward to alert the staff of the code blue.  “What’s happening?” Bucky shouted, his voice cracking with panic.  “Someone tell me what’s happening!”

The lead intensivist glanced over his shoulder.  Bucky could see they were reclining the bed, repositioning Steve’s once again limp body, preparing to intubate him again, struggling to deal with the situation.  “Get him out of here!” the doctor yelled, face sweaty and eyes narrowed with barely controlled anxiety.  “Get him out!”

Bucky’s entire body clenched in objection, but he couldn’t act on it.  He couldn’t see Steve anymore either as the team closed in around the bed, couldn’t see what they were doing, couldn’t do a fucking _thing_ as one of the nurses took his flesh and blood arm and pulled him toward the door.  He gave a whole-body jerk in surprise, and the nurse looked terrified.  It was the same one Steve had hit, and her face was bruised and bloody.  “Please, Sergeant Barnes, you have to leave.  Please.”

Seeing her battered, so afraid but still doing her job, pierced Bucky’s shock and horror.  The next thing Bucky knew clearly, she was walking him through the hallway of the ICU and depositing him back in the waiting room, the same waiting room in which the team had spent hours before.  “Stay here, sir,” the nurse gasped, leaving him by the row of vacant chairs.  “Stay!”  Then she was running back in with a swish of her scrubs, and Bucky was alone.

He just stood there.  The room was dark and empty.  The lights were dim and the television was off.  It was silent, utterly and completely _silent_ , and time stood still with him, as lost, broken, and frightened as he was.

Then Bucky twisted around with a broken sob.  “Oh, God,” he moaned, frantic, pacing the room uselessly.  His brain was simply detached from his body, thoughts spinning like wheels without traction, like gears disconnected from one another.  “Oh, fuck…  Jesus Christ…”  The dark room pitched, blurred as his eyes filled with tears, and for a second he thought he’d simply collapse.

He didn’t, though.  He breathed through the attack, holding the anxiety at bay simply because he knew he had to.  He wiped furiously at his eyes, sucking in air through his nose and slowly blowing it out through his mouth until he didn’t feel as sick and dizzy.  That was one of the things his therapist had taught him in order to deal with panic.  _Breathe._   So he did that with his eyes closed until he thought he could function.  And he had to function.

_Steve needs me._

Bucky took a deeper breath and forced open his eyes.  The waiting room was still empty and dark and quiet.  He was still shaking.  Mere moments had passed; he could hear the alarms continuing to blare in the ICU.  He peered down the brightly lit hallway.  There was nothing he could see through the sealed doors.  He could force his way through if he wanted to.  He knew he could.  But what would that solve?  Whatever was happening to Steve…  The fit of seizures and his vital signs going haywire like that and – _God_ – he stopped breathing…  How he could stop breathing?  He’d been getting better!  They’d just checked his lung function and said it was improving, said he’d turned the corner–

What time was it?  Where the hell _was_ everyone?

Bucky exhaled through a shaky sob, fumbling at the hoodie he was wearing, the one Tony had brought him yesterday evening – it had to be the middle of the night now.  It was pitch black outside, and people were gone, so it was late, past midnight maybe?  Christ, he didn’t know, and he was so damn disoriented that he couldn’t think.  Where was his phone?  He couldn’t remember if he’d left it in Steve’s room.  He must have.  His head was hurting and recalling the hours before he’d finally fallen asleep was unreasonably difficult.  It was…  Twelve?  Fourteen hours after Steve was hurt?  Something like that.  _Steve turned the corner.  Right.  The doctors came and took the breathing tube out.  The swelling in his head was better, the bleeding was better…  And Sam said he was going to go back to Stark Tower and get some sleep.  Natasha, too.  Tony brought me the clothes and dinner.  Offered to stay.  Didn’t want him there.  I was fine.  Steve even regained consciousness for a few minutes.  Mumbled something.  Didn’t seem to see me.  Fell asleep again right away, but he woke up.  He was breathing okay.  Nurse came in, said everything was good, that Steve might be out hours yet so I should sleep while I could._

And now this.  Bucky stopped fumbling at his hoodie and dug into his jeans pockets instead.  No phone.  He’d texted Sam right before he’d fallen asleep.  He remembered that now.  He’d texted him to tell him Steve was out of the woods and breathing on his own and that Bucky himself was going to try to sleep.  And he’d put it on the little table beside Steve’s bed.  It was probably broken now, with all the destruction the seizure had caused.  Either way, he couldn’t get it.

That was a seemingly minor problem in the context of what was happening, but it was enough to push him over.  He was raking his hands through his hair, grabbing at it and pulling, trying to keep his frustration under control as minutes and minutes slipped away.  He was trapped in them.  He wanted to scream, to run, to hide, to kill, to _destroy_ something…  Everything he’d been feeling for hours was boiling again, rising to a fever-pitch, and he couldn’t – he just _couldn’t_ –

“Bucky?  Bucky!”

He opened eyes he’d squeezed shut, and for a moment, he thought it was Steve.  It was Steve coming to pull him back, to save him from himself like Steve had so many times in the past.

But it wasn’t.  Sam was there, Sam and Natasha, and they ran into the waiting room.  Sam stopped in front of him, bathed in sweat, eyes wide as he stared at him, and Natasha glanced around wildly.  They were both mussed, like they’d been sleeping and had woken suddenly (which probably was the truth).  “What happened?” Sam gasped.  “What happened?  We got here as fast as we could.  Friday said something happened, and–”

Bucky ripped his hands out of his hair.  He shook his head, fear making him cold and sick to his stomach.  “Steve had a seizure.”  Natasha and Sam shared a fearful, surprised glance.  Their shock and alarm only made Bucky feel worse.  “I think it was that.  I don’t know.  I – I woke up, and he was all caught up in this – this _fit_ and the doctors were trying to get it under control.  They made me leave.”

“Ah, Jesus,” Sam moaned, scrubbing a hand down his face.  Shakily he staggered to one of the chairs and sat.  “Jesus.  I thought you said he was better!”

“He was,” Bucky shot back tensely.  “He was fine!  Docs said he was doing great.  He was breathing alright.  His vitals were good.  He woke up!  _He was fine._ ”

“Then what–”

“Head trauma can cause seizures,” Natasha softly reminded after a moment.  She glanced between the two of them.  “It can.  So it might not be…”  Her voice failed her, and she didn’t finish.

“Tony said he was bringing Bruce over,” Sam said.  He shook his head.  “They called him, and they wouldn’t be calling in Bruce for a simple complication.”

In the back of his mind, Bucky had been thinking that.  Actually hearing Sam say it, though…  He choked on his breath a little and raked a hand roughly through his hair anew.  He couldn’t bring himself to tell them Steve had stopped breathing.  He couldn’t bring himself to say what he was thinking, what he knew in the core of him.

_Something’s wrong._

There was the sound of running feet again.  Bucky turned and rushed to the edge of the waiting room to see two more doctors – the neurologists treating Steve; he recognized them from before – racing to the ICU.  He was too shocked to think to demand information from them.  The doors swung shut and locked behind them. 

“This is bad,” Sam whispered.  Bucky jerked in surprise; apparently the other man had come to stand beside him.  Sam swallowed like he was forcing a rock down his throat.  “I, um…  I’m gonna try to call Tony again.  He wasn’t in the Tower when we left…  Maybe they’re here already.”  Sam pulled his phone from his jeans pocket and worked the screen with shaking fingers.  It was obvious a couple seconds into the call that Tony wasn’t answering.  Sam swore softly.  Just as he lowered his phone from his ear, it buzzed in his hand, and Bucky’s heart leapt when he answered it.  “Ton – oh.  Yeah, Clint, yeah.  No, we don’t know anything yet.  I can’t get a hold of Stark.  Yeah…  Barnes is with us.  He said Cap had a seizure.  I don’t – no.”  Sam walked out into the hallway, and Bucky couldn’t hear anything more.

The silence that came was steeped in devastation all over again.  Natasha hadn’t moved an inch, standing in the center of the waiting room with her hands clenched into fists at her side.  It seemed like she couldn’t move, as if doing so would condemn them to the same hell they’d barely escaped that afternoon.  Bucky felt the same.  Everything was spinning around his head, even worse than before, and he’d never felt so trapped.  Not when HYDRA had strapped him into that chair and wiped his mind.  Not when they’d imprisoned him and tortured him.  This was so much worse, and he didn’t think he could handle it.  Not again.

Shockingly, the misery of waiting didn’t last as long this time.  Not more than fifteen minutes later, Tony himself appeared.  He came sprinting up the hall.  He was still dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing the day before, which made Bucky wonder if he’d truly ever left at all.  He looked harried and terrified.  “Come on,” he gasped.  “We have to go.”

“What?” Natasha gasped, narrowing her eyes in confusion.  “What’s happening?”

“We’re airlifting Steve back to the complex right now,” Tony breathlessly explained.  He took her arm and pulled her in front of him.

Bucky lurched after.  “Banner said he wasn’t stable enough to move!”

“Yeah, well, that was before.  We don’t have a choice anymore!”  Tony was driving them down the corridor.  “We need something back at the complex!”

Sam shook his head as they rounded the corner.  “Stark, what’s–”

“Something’s happening with the serum,” Tony breathlessly declared as they ran toward the elevators.  Bucky nearly tripped over his feet in horror.  He came to a sharp stop, staring wide-eyed at the other Avengers.  Tony turned, and Bucky got a better look at him now, at how scared he was but how hard he was working to hold it together.  “Steve’s vitals are all over the place.  One minute his wounds are _wildly_ healing at an unimaginable rate and everything’s stable, and the next he’s in cardiac arrest and his organs are shutting down.”

“Jesus,” Sam whispered again.

“No one’s ever seen anything like it.  It’s gotta be that alien tech he got blasted with.  It’s interacting with the serum somehow.  We need to figure out what’s going on and fast, and we can’t do that here, so we have to get him back home.  Okay?”

That was all so overwhelming that Bucky didn’t know if Tony was actually asking his permission or not.  “Okay,” he murmured.

Tony nodded.  “Okay, so come on.  Friday is remote piloting the quinjet here.  If we hurry, we can get on it.”

 _If we hurry._   Christ, the jet would leave without them.  They could take Steve _away_ _from him_ again.  Bucky couldn’t think anymore.  He just moved, following the others up the stairwell.  They climbed rapidly, mechanically, bounding up the steps to reach the top floor.  Once there, it was another run down a well-lit corridor, up a ramp, and through a pair of double doors.  They burst out onto the helipad.

The Avengers quinjet was already there.  So was the medical team.  They were rushing the stretcher across the concrete.  The night was heavy and cool, the air thick with dampness, and beyond the dome of light across the roof of the hospital, the city seemed very dark.  Bucky could still smell the ash and smoke from the fight.  He wasted no time, though, breaking from the rest of the group to sprint across the helipad.  Bruce was with the stretcher, as well as nearly a dozen doctors and EMTs, some from SHIELD and some local to the hospital.  They were moving fast, rolling the gurney and all of its accompanying gear up into the back of the quinjet.  The doctors were shouting.  “Move!  Move!  Move!”

“Heart rate’s climbing!”

“Don’t, Steve,” Bruce begged, tapping furiously at a StarkPad as they charged into the quinjet.  “Don’t do this again!”

Bucky ran closer.  He felt the others coming behind him, heard Tony shouting and felt Sam at his side and caught Natasha out of the corner of his eye as she closed the rear ramp.  Sam dropped to a crouch to help secure the stretcher to the floor of the jet, and Bucky darted to Steve’s side.  There was such a flurry of chaotic activity around it that it was difficult to see, but he caught glimpses of Steve. The tube was down his throat, and one of the nurses was compressing a bag to help him breathe.  Steve’s face and head weren’t at all swollen now, which was crazy because it was like all signs of the fight had been erased from it.  That was fast, even for the serum.  However, it was freshly bloody, red oozing from his nose and ears, and screwed up in pain.  _Christ, he’s awake!_   Bucky reached for Steve’s hand, grabbing it and holding tight.  “Steve?  Stevie, it’s Bucky.  I’m here!”  The monitors beeped distressingly, and Steve twisted on the gurney.  Bucky couldn’t tell if he was doing that himself or if it was the beginning of another seizure.  His broken leg was secured a in vain attempt to keep it immobile and stable, and the straps nearly snapped as Steve convulsed.  “Easy, love.  Easy,” Bucky soothed.  He squeezed Steve’s hand.  “Come on.”

Steve’s eyes suddenly blinked open, and Bucky’s heart leapt.  The pandemonium around them vanished, and all Bucky could do was smile and stare at Steve’s beautiful, blue eyes.  “Steve?”

Steve stared back, seemingly directly at him, but something wasn’t right.  His eyes were… dull, dark, and unfocused.  _Empty._   Bucky could tell he wasn’t _seeing_ him.   “Can he–”

“Bucky, you need to stay back,” Bruce said, getting in between him and the stretcher.  Sam took Bucky’s metal arm and gently but firmly tugged, and Bucky dropped Steve’s hand and got out of the way.  “I know you want to be with him right now, but this is a very serious situation.  He could crash again at any moment, and we need space to work.”

Bucky couldn’t do anything but obey, staring as the medical team swarmed the spot he’d had.  They were shouting things, a blur of numbers and terms and commands, and Bucky couldn’t parse it.  Nor could he follow Stark as the other man secured the jet in a flurry before rushing to the pilot’s chair.  He barely registered the aircraft lifting off or Natasha running around the medical team to speak with Tony.  Or Sam grabbing onto him as they hit turbulence on the ascent.  He let Sam steady him, let Sam pull him further away and to the seats along the side of the area.  He stood there, eyes glued to the horrific scene before him as Steve’s heart stopped again.

“He’s v-fib,” a nurse breathlessly declared.

“Goddamn it.”  That was the same intensivist who’d been treating Steve in the hospital, and he was sweaty, flustered, and frustrated.  He was starting CPR again.  “I need paddles!”

“Tony, get us up there faster!” Bruce hollered, and he was fumbling in a bag of supplies for a cartridge that he loaded into an injector.  He handed that to the intensivist.  Another nurse was readying a defibrillator, which was fucking horrifying, but before she could even begin to bring it over, the monitors around the gurney shrieked.  All on its own Steve’s heart surged back into a rapid, seemingly random rhythm, and the team backed away as his body lurched in another inhuman spasm.  He settled back down seemingly lifelessly, and just like that, his pulse returned to a normal, resting rate.

Bucky choked on his breath.  Beside him, Sam was terrified.  “Holy shit,” he whispered.

“Tony!” Bruce shouted.

“ETA: eight minutes!” Tony reported back, glancing over his shoulder.  “Hang on!”

The jet trembled, charging through more turbulence, and Bucky barely kept his balance.  He stared at Steve’s now lax face, unable to process what was happening.  _Something’s wrong with the serum._   God, how could that be?  How could that happen?

_Something’s wrong with Steve._

The next eight minutes were simultaneously slower than an eternity but as short and sudden as a rollercoaster ride.  There was nothing Bucky could say, nothing he could do, as Steve rode the awful waves of whatever was happening to him.  They rose and fell randomly, an ocean under siege by a violent, unearthly storm, and Bucky felt like he was being washed away in it.  Steve was being _ripped_ away, second by second, heartbeat by heartbeat.  His pulse skyrocketed to tachycardia before screeching to a halt and then quivering back to an even rate, plateauing there for a few blissful moments before plummeting to a rate too slow to sustain life.  He came around, choking on the breathing tube and struggling, and seconds later as the team tried to extract it, his respiration ceased all together again and his blood-oxygenation levels sank and he lost consciousness again.  His brain activity was all over the map, and portable computers attached to the sensors all over his body struggling to keep up as the situation radically shifted.  The medical team was struggling as well, simply unable to contend with the chaos.  It was just as Tony said: Steve’s vitals were all over the place, changing from moment to moment, and treating it was nigh impossible.  Nothing made any sense.

One thing was brutally clear, though.  This was going to kill him.

The quinjet touched down on the pad outside the complex just as Steve’s heart stopped again.  The intensivist was pumping at this chest, standing on the lower structure of the stretcher as the team rapidly unhooked it from the floor of the quinjet.  Bruce was lowering the ramp, and in a flash the entire group was running out into the night.  More doctors and personnel, the complex’s own medical staff who were trained by SHIELD and very familiar with treating Captain America’s unique physiology, were waiting, and the group running by the stretcher doubled in size as they rushed into the building.  Bucky lurched to follow, Sam on his heels.

Coming home wasn’t the relief it should have been.  The entire complex seemed to be awake even though it was well past the middle of the night.  The once quiet place was alive with panicked activity, and getting through the throng of people gathered around the medical ward was difficult.  It was like some siren had gone through the building, awakening everyone, and they were all gathered to see the fallen Captain America being rushed home like some goddamn _spectacle._ Bucky nearly plowed into a couple of young SHIELD techs who were probably on a graveyard shift.  They were just standing and gawking.  “Out of the way!” he growled, trying to keep his temper under check as he fell further behind the stretcher.  “Move!”

Just ahead of him, Sam burst through the doors of triage.  The stretcher was already gone.  Winded and frustrated, he turned around, glancing at all the treatment areas where each one of the team had been patched up once or twice before.  Aside from a few surprised, alarmed staff members, there was nothing.  “Where…”

“They took Captain Rogers to the biomedical scanners in Doctor Banner’s lab,” Friday declared, sounded concerned and breathless herself.

Tony caught up to him with Natasha at his side.  “Come on,” he gasped, and he led them in a sprint through the ward.  Bucky had only been back here once or twice before, when Bruce and Tony had been working with T’Challa’s people to design his arm.  Right now it was just a blur of hallways, offices, and equipment.  Finally, _finally,_ they reached the outside of Bruce’s lab.  The glass windows and door were tinted, making it impossible to see inside.

Tony skidded to a stop right outside the entrance.  “You guys should stay out here,” he gasped.  “It’s going to be okay, okay?  Just stay here.”  He didn’t wait for a response, rushing to the doors.  They opened to admit him but then sealed behind him with a hiss and locked.

_No, no, no._

“Fuck,” Sam whispered.  He was panting, bathed in sweat, staring at the lab.  For a second he was still, like he was waiting for Tony to come back out and let them in.  That didn’t happen.  “Fuck, come on.  Friday!”

“They are positioning Captain Rogers in the scanner,” the AI responded.  She still sounded harried rather than as calm and serene as she typically was.  “He is momentarily stable.  They will be able to obtain clear readings so long as that remains the case.  Doctor Banner is also preparing to draw blood.”

That all seemed like placating details, which were hardly a replacement for _being there._ “Let us in,” Sam demanded.  There was hardly any force behind his words.  “Please.  We can’t stay out here.”

Natasha grasped Sam’s arm, and the other man jumped.  “We’d only be in the way,” she said quietly.  Sam turned to glare at her sharply, but she didn’t back down.  She didn’t because it was true. 

_There’s nothing we can do._

Bucky choked on a sob, turning away from the sealed lab.  He simply couldn’t restrain it any longer.  “Bucky,” Sam gasped.  “Jesus, man, are you okay?”

Bucky wanted to snap a harsh response because, fuck, that was a stupid question.  He couldn’t, though.  He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and even if he’d been able to, he knew his voice wouldn’t come.  He just bit his lip until he tasted blood in a last-ditch effort to hang on, shaking his head and pacing again simply to _move._   Friday was quick to offer, “Sergeant Barnes, if you want to go to the office down the hall, I can send the video feed of the inside of the lab to the computer there.  That way you can see what’s happening.”

For a moment, Bucky considered that, and that actually calmed him.  Still, he shook his head.  “No.”  The thought of having to helplessly watch Steve suffer another moment turned his stomach.  Maybe that made him a coward (it certainly made his blood curdle in shame), but he couldn’t stand his helplessness.  He couldn’t stand seeing the man he loved suffering like that anymore.  And staying here kept him closer to Steve at least.  Maybe _that_ was meaningless and silly, but it was how he felt.  Natasha and Sam’s gazes on him, questioning and worried.  “You guys can go if you want, but I’m staying right here.”

That seemed to be the end of that option.  Natasha and Sam stayed in the hallway as well and stared uselessly at the tinted lab.  Bucky wasn’t sure if they were following his lead, too worried about him to leave him, or simply as unable as he was to watch Steve’s torment any longer.  Whatever the reason, they settled in to wait with him.  Again.  Once or twice Natasha took a call.  Bucky heard her speak softly on the phone, but the conversation barely registered.  It had to be the others, Wanda or Clint or Parker maybe, who’d all been left down in the City with no explanation.  She didn’t provide much of one now, only instructing whoever it was to return to upstate.  Other than that, no one spoke.  Gone were the attempts at comfort and strength from earlier that day, a lifetime ago for how long the hours had felt.  Gone as well were the agitated movements, the pacing and fidgeting and shifting.  Gone was the _emotion._   Bucky just felt empty, drained dry, and all he could do was lean against the wall, close his eyes, and breathe through his nose.

Another eternity crept away before the door to the lab finally opened.  Bucky had been drifting in the nothingness in his head, but he snapped from it and pushed up off the wall in a cold jolt of fear.  Sam stood from where he’d sat on the floor, and Natasha quickly came over from her spot where she’d been staring out the window again, this time at the thick blanket of night.  They looked as scared as Bucky felt.

Tony and Bruce walked out of the lab, along with Fury.  Bucky had no idea how he’d gotten inside or what he was doing here.  That was a minor matter, though, given the pain and barely restrained horror on Tony’s face.  “The serum’s compromised,” he announced softly, “just as we thought.”

“What does that mean?” Sam demanded, looking frantically between Tony and Bruce.

Bruce sighed, like he was reluctant to explain but he knew he needed to.  “Steve got hit with that alien weapon before he fell, right?  It must have really hit _him_ , not just his shield, and it seems like the energy from it interacted with the serum, causing it to…  Well, I guess _mutate_ is as good a term as any.  SHIELD’s techs have just started pulling apart a few of the guns we recovered, and from what we can see, the particular intensity and wavelength of the radiation interacts with human DNA in a very dangerous way.”

“The other people who got shot today were vaporized because their cells destabilized instantly,” Tony explained, “Obviously that didn’t happen to Steve.  Instead the radiation he was exposed to is wreaking havoc with the serum.  You saw it.”  He stared at Bucky, nothing but grief and sympathy in his eyes.  “It’s like his entire body’s gone completely haywire.”

“Will he be okay?”  Bucky heard himself ask that, his voice low and tense.

Tony and Bruce shared a look that was more damning than any answer they could give.  The latter sighed, shaking his head and opening his hands helplessly.  “We don’t know, Bucky.  The stress this is putting on him…  The human body, even one as enhanced as Steve’s, is not meant to go through this amount of trauma.  His injuries are serious enough as it is.  With the serum attacking healthy tissue on top of it, it’s an extremely dangerous situation.  Any one of these times where his heart arrests or his lungs fail…  He might not come out of it.”

That was brutal to hear.  _Any moment he could die._   “Then how do we stop it?” Sam demanded.  “There has to be something we can do!”

“Is there any chance the serum will snap out of it?” Natasha asked.  “Fix itself on its own?  Then he’d get better, right?”

Bruce seemed doubtful.  “It’s not impossible, but I wouldn’t bet on it.  Not with Steve’s condition as unstable as it.  If he wasn’t already so injured–”

“The ‘wait and see’ approach is not going to do it this time,” Tony said adamantly.  “Every second we don’t do something we’re rolling the dice with Steve’s life.”

“So what do we do?” Bucky demanded.

Tony took a step forward, right toward Bucky.  His eyes were fiery and firm.  “We need to shut the serum down.  There’s no other choice.  Shut it down and stop the damage it’s causing.”

“Wait, wait,” Sam said, shaking his head and squinting in confusion.  “I’m not a doctor or a scientist, but I know you can’t just turn the serum off.  It’s in Steve’s DNA.  His body constantly replenishes its own supply, right?  You can’t just shut it down!”

Tony glanced back at Bruce and Fury, more specifically at Fury.  He looked unbelievably angry, like it was taking all his (waning) control to stay calm.  “Why don’t you explain it,” he said tautly.

It was silent for a beat.  Everyone was watching the SHIELD Director, who was not a doctor or scientist either, so that was weird, and who seemed utterly unintimidated by the attention (or by Tony’s very obvious ire).  Fury was always so damn inscrutable.  Then guilt crossed his face in a flash, and he sighed, shifting his weight and clasping his hands behind him.  “A few years ago, SHIELD developed a chemical agent to neutralize the serum.”

That… didn’t make any sense.  “Say again?” Sam asked, his voice hard.  “Because it sounds like you just told us your _good guy_ organization that’s charged with protecting the world and aiding the Avengers created a weapon against Captain America.”

Fury didn’t so much as blink.  “He means HYDRA developed it,” Natasha offered.  Her voice was meek, timid, searching for confirmation _._ She looked at Fury.  “It had to be HYDRA when HYDRA was inside SHIELD.”

Fury clenched his jaw and that was all the answer they needed.  Bucky didn’t remember much of the time SHIELD collapsed, but he knew enough to reason it out.  “If it had been HYDRA, it would have been released when SHIELD went down,” he murmured, feeling so sick and angry.  “We would have seen it in the data dump.”

Bruce shook his head.  “Guys, listen.  We don’t have time to argue about–”

“No, this is _bullshit_ ,” Sam hissed.  He’d never been a SHIELD agent, never had held any allegiance to the spy organization outside of the Avengers.  The betrayal in his eyes was unfathomable.  “What the hell, Fury?  _Explain._ ”

Fury hesitated a moment, but then he acquiesced.  “After we discovered Cap in the ice, the World Security Council was concerned he might prove to be a rogue force we couldn’t control.  We had no idea what his mental state would be, what his time spent frozen might have done to him, if he was even the same man from the history books.  You need to remember: this was on the tail of Iron Man telling the US Government to fuck off and the Hulk leveling half of Harlem and not only discovering Asgardians exist but seeing firsthand what one could do to a small town in New Mexico.”

“A rogue force,” Tony spat.  “Unbelievable.”

Bruce raised his hands and his voice.  “Guys–”

“I was against their decision,” Fury insisted.  “The Council never wanted Rogers thawed!  They wanted him in cryo down in the Sandbox where they could study the serum.  I refused and promised them he’d be on our side, that he could help with the Avengers Initiative.  Obviously I won the war on that, but they took blood samples when we brought him back from Greenland.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Sam hissed.  He looked away, furious and struggling.  Bucky could appreciate that.  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  SHIELD developing an anti-serum agent against the Winter Soldier…  That he could understand.  But against Steve?  _Steve?_   It was disgusting.  “Did Steve know you did that?  Did he consent to it?”

Fury’s eye flashed.  “What do you think, Wilson?”

Sam seemed ready to fight someone, breathing hard through his nose with his fists clenched at his side.  “I think you’re a lying bastard, _Nick_.”

“Look,” Fury snapped.  “I’m not proud that this happened.  I’m not proud that I couldn’t stop it, but I had to cut my losses and focus on the big picture.”

“The big picture,” Tony said derisively.  “It’s so easy for you to play with people’s lives.”

Bruce stepped in between the group.  “Stop.  It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re a piece of work, Fury.”

“I did what I had to.  I knew the world needed Captain America out on the battlefield and conceding that there needed to be protections and failsafes was the only way I could get that.”

“The ends always justify the means, huh,” Sam seethed.

“Enough.  Please!”

Fury took a step closer, clearly unwilling to back down.  “Sometimes they have to, yes.  Considering none of us would _be_ here if Rogers had been kept on ice, I’d say I made the right choice.  Not to mention what it would have been like for him.  I gave him another chance at living.”

“Right,” Sam returned sharply, “so that one day, if he ever stood up against what the Council or you or whoever the fuck was in control wanted, you could just shut him down.”

“If I’d wanted that, I would have _done_ it when he brought my entire organization to its knees,” Fury snapped.

_“Stop!”_

Bruce’s shout echoed in the hallway.  Everyone turned to him, and things went still.  There was a green tint to Banner’s skin, and his eyes didn’t look entirely right.  The tension in the air was palpable, and obviously it was getting to him, too.  “Every second we spend arguing is a second Steve does _not_ have,” he said tensely.

That was like throwing water on the fire.  The seconds that followed were awful, laden with guilt and fear.  Bruce forced himself to calm down, taking a couple deep breaths, and the dangerous glow to his eyes faded.  He still glared at the group.  “We can debate the morality of the situation another time.  Right now, it doesn’t matter how or why this agent came into existence.  We have it, and we can use it to help Steve.”

“Bruce is right,” Natasha offered softly.  She’d been quiet through the argument, and she looked even paler and more troubled, like she couldn’t believe what she was learning.  Like _this_ was too much on top of what had happened, this betrayal by a man she’d trusted, by someone she’d convinced Steve and all the others to trust.  “What next?”

“Okay,” Tony said, snapping free from his emotions.  “Right.  So this is the general idea.  We use this – whatever it’s called–”

“Project: Delilah,” Fury offered, and that earned him a hell of a glare from Sam.  Bucky couldn’t stand the analogy.  He remembered his Old Testament well enough.  _Delilah.  She cut Samson’s hair and took away his strength, his blessing from God.  She betrayed him._ “I didn’t choose the name, either.”

Tony frowned.  “Whatever it is.  We use it to shut the serum down.”

“And then what?” Sam demanded, shaking his head in horror.  “He shrinks back down to the body he used to have?”

“No,” Bruce quickly responded.  “No, no.  The anatomical and physiological changes to Steve’s body as a result of the combination of the serum and the Vita-rays is permanent.  Shutting the serum off, to put it simplistically, won’t affect how he looks.”  Sam was relieved.  Bucky was, too.  That wasn’t to say he’d be upset to see Steve in his smaller form; he loved Steve before, and he loved him now, and he’d love him no matter what he looked like.  But it would crush Steve, to lose the body (and thus the purpose) he’d gained through the serum.  And, of course, there was the fear that all of Steve’s previous medical maladies would return.  Bucky had no idea if that was possible, and it seemed premature to worry about it.  The current medical maladies were serious enough.

Bruce was continuing.  “I think the problem is probably coming from the serum molecules already in his body.  The serum in Steve’s tissues is what confers the enhanced metabolism, endurance, and healing properties.  Those biochemical processes are what’s been so damaged by the radiation and are what’s hurting him now.  That’s why I think if we can neutralize them, the condition may rectify itself.  We shut the serum down, cease the production of new serum molecules, and let his body reset.”

“Assuming that works, then what?” Sam asked.

Bruce opened his mouth but didn’t answer right away.  Tony did that, instead.  “Then we turn the serum back on.”

It was quiet a beat again.  Natasha shook her head, shifting her doubtful, worried gaze between the two scientists like she couldn’t decide who to trust.  “We can do that?”

“Project: Delilah was designed with an antidote,” Fury explained.  “It wasn’t meant to be a permanent deterrent.”

The implications of that were pretty sickening, that SHIELD had developed means to effectively de-serum Captain America and then reinstate him if and when they so desired.  It reminded Bucky a little too much of HYDRA’s chair, of their cryostasis chambers, of how HYDRA took him out, used him, and then put him back on ice, like the tool and _asset_ they’d designed him to be.  And, like the asset SSR had designed Captain America to be, SHIELD had wanted to do the same to him.  Shut down his enhanced healing, his nearly superhuman speed and strength, his unimaginable endurance…  Shut it all down and leave him only a man who they could control as necessary.  Then switch the serum back on and send him back out to do their dirty work whenever they needed.

 _Sick fucks._   They’d have been dreaming if they ever thought the serum was what made Steve Rogers powerful.

“So let me make sure I understand here,” Sam said.  “You want to use this… bioweapon on Steve, shut the serum down to stop all the damage it’s doing now, wait out this radiation issue–”

“It looks like the radiation itself is gone from his body,” Bruce corrected.  “We just need the damaged serum flushed out.”

Sam blinked.  “Okay.  And then turn the serum back on.”  He shook his head, very much agitated.  “Won’t his injuries kill him without the serum stopping that?”

“Are you sure the bioweapon is safe?” Natasha demanded.

“How do you know–”

“We don’t know!” Tony said sharply.  “Look, there are a hundred unknowns here.  We don’t understand how the serum works completely.  We don’t understand the biochemical processes it uses to do what it does.  We don’t even know if this serum-stopper SHIELD developed is going to work.”

“We weren’t ever able to test it,” Fury explained coolly.  “Obviously.”

 _Christ._   “That means you don’t know for sure that you’ll be able to turn the serum back on, right.” The words came without Bucky thinking to speak them.  His mind was racing, overwhelmed with the implications, with the enormity of what was happening.  “You don’t know if you can fix it afterward.”

Bruce threw up his hands in helplessness.  “On paper, yes, we can.  From what I have seen, the science behind what SHIELD did is solid.  They had access to Steve’s blood, so they were able to develop this and simulate the bioweapon’s usage with success.  It _looks_ like it will work.”

“But you can’t be sure,” Sam argued sharply.

“I can’t give you absolutes!” Bruce returned just as firmly.  “I’m sorry!  I can’t make promises.”

Bucky shook his head.  “Why not test it on me?”  Everyone turned to him.  “I’ve got the serum, too.  Test it on me.”

Bruce shook his head emphatically, practically interrupting him.  “We can’t.  The version of the serum you have is different from Steve’s.  They’re similar but not the same, significantly so, and I’m not sure how useful the results would be because of that.  Plus there’s no sense in endangering you, too.”

“I don’t give a damn about the danger,” Bucky said angrily.  “Test it on me.”

“There’s no time,” Fury declared.  “And we don’t have enough of the agent.  We can’t afford to waste any.”

Bucky wanted to scream.  Maybe he would have, if Tony hadn’t charged onward.  “It doesn’t matter.  None of this matters!  All we can know for sure right now is the serum is fucked up, and it’s killing Steve, and the only option we have is to shut it down.” Tony glanced around the group like he was challenging them to argue with him.  “ _That’s_ the bottom line.  And if we don’t do something _right now…_ ”  He didn’t finish, sudden tears clouding his eyes.  He was staring at Bucky.  “It’s a shit plan.  I can’t deny it.”

“What if we call in someone else?  T’Challa.”  Sam shook his head, desperate and nearly panicked.  “What if–”

“We already sent the information to both Helen Cho and Wakanda,” Fury responded tensely.  “There hasn’t been a response yet.”

“And given them what?  Fifteen minutes to answer?” Sam snapped.

“I don’t even know if Shuri’s available,” Bruce added.  “King T’Challa mentioned some sort of humanitarian effort they were undertaking in a few other African nations, and Helen’s–”

“We can’t wait!” Tony shouted.  Tears were filling his eyes to the brim.  “Steve could die!  He’s fucking dying right now!  This is our only chance to stop that!  That’s the bottom–”

“Boss.”  Friday’s voice cut through the argument, and everyone went silent.  “They need you and Doctor Banner back inside.  Captain Rogers is in cardiac arrest again.  They can’t bring him out of it.”

 _Jesus._   Without thinking, Bucky lurched toward the lab, fully intending to break the goddamn doors open, but Tony was already there, already getting stepping to the scanners that managed the locks.  “We’re doing it.  End of discussion.  We’re doing it right now!”

“Tony, stop,” Bruce snapped.  “Stop!”  Tony did stop.  He turned around, red-faced and furious.  Panic shone in his eyes.  Bruce shook his head, clearly struggling to stay calm and logical.  “It’s not your choice.  It’s his.”  Bruce tipped his head toward Bucky. 

Tony shook his head.  “Christ, the time we’re spending debating this–”

“There’s no debate.  You can’t make the call.”  Tony opened his mouth.  Then his eyes darkened, and his face screwed up in rage.  He sputtered a little, biting his lip violently to keep from saying more.  Banner turned away from his friend to look directly at Bucky, and Bucky’s heart just stopped.  “It’s your decision.  You’re Steve’s legal medical proxy.  You’re married to him.  We’ve told you what we think, but what _you_ think is the only thing that matters, and you have to decide.  Either we go in there and shut the serum down or we do nothing and pray he comes out of this on his own.”

 _God._   Bucky _couldn’t_ think.  He had no idea, _no idea._   He knew everyone was looking at him, watching him, waiting for him to say something, but he couldn’t speak.  He just couldn’t.  This wasn’t fair.  It wasn’t fucking fair.  And that wasn’t to say Bruce wasn’t right _._   _He_ was Steve’s husband, the person closest to him, the one who’d known Steve the longest, the one who understood Steve in ways no one else ever had or ever would…  It was his job to speak for Steve when Steve couldn’t speak for himself, his place to choose.  He had to make this decision.

Christ, that wasn’t fair, but Steve was _dying_.

“Bucky.”

Bucky focused.  He’d apparently been staring at the tinted windows of the lab, and he turned and found Tony staring at him.  Tony, who looked so scared and frantic but a little calmer at least, like he realized panic wasn’t going to help.  And Bucky looked to him, waited those precious couple seconds for him to gather himself and speak because, even though he was Steve’s husband, Tony was his best friend.  All these people…  Sam and Natasha and Bruce.  Thor and Clint and Wanda.  The rest of the team.  They were _all_ Steve’s friends.  His family.

How could this have happened?

Tony grabbed his arms, grabbed him and held firm.  “Bucky, listen.  I know this is a terrible situation.  I know this is sudden and brutal and awful.  And I know I can’t tell you everything’s going to be okay if we do this.  Bruce is right.  I can’t promise that.”  Tony shook his head, his voice breaking.  “But if we don’t act now and don’t do anything at all…  The threat of Steve dying is worse than _anything_ else.  The serum saving him like it did with the ice?  Like it has before?  It _can’t_ now.  It’s killing him.  And we can’t wait.  We’ll lose him if we do, and I can’t live with that.  I just can’t. I know this will work.  _We_ can save him.”

Bucky winced.  “Tony–”

“We can save his life,” Tony insisted.  “I _know_ that.”

Bucky stared at Tony.  For all the strife between them, the things they still hadn’t put to rest, the pain that held them back from each other…  He trusted Tony.  Tony cared about Steve.  If Tony was saying this, he believed it.  He wouldn’t lie.  He wouldn’t do _anything_ to hurt Steve.  Bucky knew that.  If he couldn’t believe or understand what they had to do, he could believe in Tony and that Tony would know how to do it. And he could believe that, were he in Steve’s place, Steve would do _anything_ to save him, no matter the risks.  Bucky wouldn’t just let fate decide.

So he found his courage and nodded.  “Do whatever you think we need to,” he said.

Tony’s relief couldn’t have been more obvious.  “Alright.  Alright.  Bruce, let’s go!  Hurry!”  He and Bruce turned back to the lab.

“I’m coming,” Bucky declared, and he charged after them.  Tony turned and opened his mouth to argue, but Bucky didn’t let him.  “I can’t wait out here again while Steve’s sick, okay?  I _can’t_.  Not again.”

Tony searched his eyes, and everything that he wanted to say, everything that Bucky already knew about how terrible and difficult this could be and what he could end up witnessing, was viciously clear.  _I can’t live with myself._   That was the truth, and they both knew it.

So Tony just nodded.  Bucky didn’t even look behind him at Sam and Natasha, too terrified and frantic to manage anything other than running into the open lab in front of him.

Inside the medical team was struggling to get Steve’s heart beating again.  They’d moved him from the scanner bed and back onto the gurney.  Out in the hall, _this_ had all quickly become so far away, so innocuous and unreal in effect, and seeing it again was like a sharp slap.  Bucky nearly staggered at the sight of Steve’s gray, bloody face and unmoving form.  The team was trying frantically to re-establish a heartbeat.  The defibrillator was beside the crowd of nurses, and it had clearly been used, and the intensivist was _still_ performing chest compressions.  Steve looked dead.

 _Dead._   Friday had said that the team couldn’t deal with the cardiac arrest, that this was what had been going on beyond the lab doors while they’d been outside wasting time arguing, and _seeing_ it actually happening… 

_God, make it not too late!_

“Goddamn it,” Bruce breathlessly whimpered, running across the room to help.  “How long has he been down?”

“Almost three minutes!” one of the nurses replied.  She had her fingers pressed to Steve’s neck.  “We can’t get him back this time!  We can’t get a pulse!”

“Push one milligram epinephrine!  Stat!”

“Keep up the compressions!  Christ, he’s flatlining…”

“It’s not doing any good!  The serum’s fighting us every step of the way!  I don’t know what to do!  He’s dying!”

“Bucky,” Tony gasped, grabbing Bucky’s flesh and blood arm and tugging him back.  “Help with this!”

Bucky stumbled after him to the other side of the lab.  There was a little alcove there separated from all the activity, and on its work bench and surrounded by equipment was a plastic, silver case with the SHIELD logo on it.  It was wide open, and inside there were gray foam inserts and numerous small, thin bags of liquid.  Three of them were red, a red that glowed menacingly.  _One set to stop the serum._ The other three pouches were blue.  _Another to restore it._  

Bucky swallowed, feeling dizzy with panic.  “What should we–”

“He’ll need an injection,” Tony breathlessly declared.  “I hope.  Christ, I don’t know!”  He ran back across the room toward the carts of medical supplies scattered around the scanners and the gurney, shifting manically through the drawers until he found what he needed.  Then he sprinted back, a large gauge syringe in his hand.  He took one of the pouches with the red liquid.  “Hold this.”

Doing that seemed repulsive, but Bucky swallowed down his thundering heart and carefully took the bag from Tony.  The liquid inside looked like blood, only more translucent.  Tony was scrambling for some other things on the lab bench; Bucky didn’t know what exactly.  “Don’t know if we need to dilute this stuff,” Tony mumbled.  “Don’t know how much!”

“What?” Bucky mumbled as he watched Tony remove the sterile wrappers from the syringe. 

Tony squinted as he tried to read the amounts.  “Didn’t exactly come with instructions.  Bruce!”

“All of it!” Bruce shouted back.  _“Hurry!”_

“Fuck,” Tony whispered.  “Steady.”  There was a plastic port on the bottom of the bag.  Bucky held it still as Tony poked the needle into it.  He watched, drowning in the throb of sound behind him, the intensivist counting compressions and the nurses shouting and monitors wailing with alarm and the muted thunder of the intensivists’ fists on Steve’s chest, as the red liquid was slowly sucked into the syringe’s barrel, like blood draining down.  It seemed to take forever, even though Bucky knew it was hardly a second.

When the pouch was empty and the injection was ready, Tony capped the needle and rushed over to the gurney.  “Here!”

Bruce took the needle and flicked the cover off, shoving closer to the gurney.  The medical team stopped and got out of the way, watching with wide eyes.  Bruce quickly slid it into the central line IV in Steve’s neck.  “Here we go,” he said on a shaky breath, injecting the red liquid into the port.  “Come on, come on, come on…”

Everything was still.  The intensivist had ceased chest compressions while Bruce had administered the drug, and he didn’t restart them right away.  Neither did the nurses and other doctors rush back into activity or resume their frightened chatter.  Time had been locked into this queer, grotesque stasis, and everyone was simply staring at Steve’s lax face, wondering and waiting and hoping for something to happen.  For this to work.

Only nothing changed.  The monitors were still shrieking their warnings.  Bucky tore his gaze from Steve’s face to look at them and saw the same terrible things: Steve’s nonexistent pulse, abysmally low blood pressure, total lack of respiration, and nearly flat EKG lines.  It was like Steve’s heart was jolting to life for a split second and then unnaturally stopping again just as suddenly.  He hadn’t known what to expect, but this was the worst outcome of them all, because this wasn’t working.

_It’s not working!_

“Damn it,” the intensivist seethed.  He sighed in aggravation and went back to pushing on Steve’s chest, forcing Steve’s heart to pump and hopefully spreading the medicine throughout his body.  “This is pointless.  His heart’s not maintaining any sort of rhythm!”

“Tony, we need another dose!” Bruce declared.  He pressed his fingers to Steve’s throat, clearly trying to measure for a pulse again as he stared intently at the monitors.  “It’s not some miracle elixir.  We need to keep working.”

“Doctor Banner–”

“Keep up the compressions!”

“I am,” the intensivist retorted, and he was, pumping roughly, shaking with exhaustion and frustration.  It had been more than an hour since Steve had had the first fit at this point.  He shook his head as he worked.  “You need to realize that sometimes it’s not worth–”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Tony hissed.  His shaking hands nearly dropped the red pouch.  “Shit!”

“Try shocking him now,” Bruce ordered the rest of the team.  “Push another milligram of epinephrine!  Tony?”

With Bucky’s help, Tony was fumbling to reload the syringe. “Sorry,” he gasped.  “Sorry!  I got it!”

“Clear!” one of the other doctors shouted, and everyone moved back from the stretcher.  She checked the pads attached to Steve’s chest from the AED before activating them.  The _thud_ of the machine pumping its voltage into Steve’s body was ugly, and Steve jerked unnaturally a bit before going limp again.  That, too, seemed to achieve nothing, and the intensivist grimly went right back to CPR.  The woman shook her head, horrified and confused.  “I don’t even know if this is a shockable rhythm!”

“Keep at it,” Bruce insisted sharply.  The medical team looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head.  Bruce gestured at them.  “I realize this isn’t something any of you have ever dealt with or treated before, but you have to believe me.  We have to give this time.  Keep working it!”  Tony shoved the refilled syringe at Bruce, and Bruce injected this dose as well, crumbling a bit.  “Come on, Steve…”

“Clear!”

The AED discharged the instant everyone was away, but again it did nothing.  Steve’s heart was still in failure.  The team rushed back to it, counting chest compressions and squeezing the resuscitator and doing everything imaginable to save Steve’s life.  Bucky’s vision blurred.  It felt like the world was twisting again, jerking, tipping, like his own heart was stopped inside him.  Bruce was shouting more and more that SHIELD’s bioagent needed time, that they had to pump Steve’s heart for him to get the compound to circulate in his body, that they couldn’t give up hope.  The doctors argued, throwing out desperate ideas, some calling for other treatments, some calling for their surrender in this battle.  Tony adamantly refused, yelling back that no one was listening, that they couldn’t give up, that they needed time and they still had another bag of the bioweapon, that they were administering the final dose, that as long as there was even the _slightest_ chance, they couldn’t stop…

Only there was no chance.  The monitors screamed a monotone warning as Steve utterly flatlined.  _Asystole._   Someone shouted that.  Someone else yelled the AED was useless, that _continuing_ was useless now.  Bruce was shouting, too, and Tony was shouting, screaming that Steve not quit on them, that Steve fight, that Steve _not let go,_ and Tony was injecting the last of the bioweapon.  There was a flurry of panic, a blur of motion, a muted roar of sound.

Bucky’s eyes closed.  The world faded and fell away, and in the silence inside his head, he could almost hear it again.  _Steve breathing, slow and steady._   _So beautiful._ He could almost feel it.  _Steve lying beside him, naked and warm and solid and strong.  Always so strong.  The safest place in this world was always Steve’s arms._ He could almost _see_ it.  _Steve’s blue eyes, deep and full of love.  “Could look at you forever.”  Steve kissed him.  “Forever.” Bucky could feel the heat of Steve’s breath on his face.  “Every day for the rest of my life.  Because I’m yours, Buck.”_

There was a beep.  Soft and sudden.  It was alone, this quiet, timid thing, and it seemed as though another wouldn’t come.

But it did come.  There was another beep.

And then more, one after another.  More and more, until the soft beeps were a pattern, a rhythm, a pulse.  _A heart beating._

Bucky sucked in a breath, shock blasting over him.  His eyes popped open, and he staggered forward to the gurney.  Everyone was clustered around it, silent and unmoving like statues.  Bucky pushed his way through them, frenzied and panicked and _God please please please–_   “Steve,” he gasped.  “Steve!”

Steve was lying there, motionless save for the slow, barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest.  His eyes were shut and sunken, his wounds oozing blood into jostled bandages, his leg still bracketed in metal.  The AED pads were yet on his chest, as well as the breathing tube down his throat and all the machines and monitors around him and the mess of the team trying to save his life strewn everywhere, but…

_He’s alive._

It worked.  The monitors were beeping steadily.  The flat lines were jumping with slow peaks.  Steve’s heart was beating again, beating regularly.  Beating _normally._

They’d saved his life.

“Oh, God,” Bucky whispered, tears filling his eyes to spill down his cheeks.  “Oh, thank God.  Steve.  Steve!”  He picked up Steve’s hand from the gurney and held it close, leaning over Steve and gasping a soft, strained sob.  “Steve, Steve…  You’re alright.  You’re alright!”  He smoothed Steve’s hair from his forehead and kissed him feverishly before practically collapsing on top of him, gathering him as closely as he could.  The medical team didn’t stop him.  Tony and Bruce didn’t, either.  They were all exhausted, weak with relief, overwhelmed, and they simply stood and watched as Bucky finally let himself break.


	5. Chapter 5

Twelve hours later, Steve was recovering in a quiet, private room in the medical ward at the complex.  It was utterly unbelievable, considering he’d been clinically dead not long ago.  This incredibly odd sense of nothing being real, like this was a dream or an illusion, had settled over everything.  People were tentative, speaking quietly, touching gently, moving gingerly like they were walking on eggshells.  Like accepting what had happened – that the plan had worked and Steve was alright now – would rip the good fortune right from their fingers.

Of course, just because Steve was recovering didn’t necessarily mean this was over.  All they knew for certain at this point was that his vitals had stabilized since administering SHIELD’s bioagent.  Bruce had confirmed through numerous blood draws and analyses that the contaminated serum was being flushed from his system.  Furthermore, no new serum molecules were being produced, which meant the bioagent was well and truly working.  That had caused no small amount of joy, both to see Steve’s dangerous condition settle back down and to find he hadn’t automatically shrunk back to his pre-serum self.  Bruce had said that wouldn’t happen, that it was impossible, but even he seemed relieved that it truly hadn’t, like all his certainty had been partially out of the need to convince himself.  Still, a collective grateful sigh went through the lot of them at seeing Steve comfortable and calm and sleeping with his heartbeat slow but steady and his lungs breathing on their own again and his wounds…

Well, they weren’t healing so rapidly anymore.  When the serum had been so out of control, the cellular regeneration had been random and wild and uneven, so much so that some of his wounds (like a few of the burns and a couple of the deeper lacerations) were gone like they’d never been there at all.  Others, on the other hand (like his badly broken leg and the head wound), seemed new and tender, as if the serum hadn’t had hours to speed through the healing process.  It was extremely disturbing, just how messed up everything seemed to be.  Bruce, Tony, and the SHIELD doctors insisted it was fine.  The serum was _off_ , for all intents and purposes, and therefore Steve was, for all intents and purposes, just a normal human, a normal man who’d been hurt badly.

Still, this wasn’t a normal situation.  No one quite knew what to expect, so everyone, the team especially, was monitoring Steve’s condition closely.  The rest of the Avengers had returned from the city that morning.  Needless to say, Thor hadn’t much cared for this whole wild plan.  He (like Bucky and Clint and some of the others) couldn’t stand the science-babble, particularly in tense situations like this.  He wanted things explained simply, facts bereft of jargon, clear choices and even clearer outcomes.  Nothing about this was clear.  It was unknowns piled on top of unknowns, as Tony kept saying, but it’d be alright.  They knew what they were doing.

For once, Bucky knew what he was doing, too, and what he was doing was hunkering down at Steve’s side and staying put.  As the day wore on, he staked his claim on the chair closest to Steve’s bed and planted himself there like a tree.  With Steve stable and breathing on his own, the amount of machinery needed for life support had diminished, and that felt like a godsend.  So did the color that was slowly but surely returning to his face.  So did the team of doctors (more than a dozen by Bucky’s count) and nurses (even more than the doctors) who were watching Steve every second of every minute along with the Avengers who were camping out around the ward and wandering in and out of Steve’s room.  Steve was in good hands, and Bucky knew it.

Even still, he didn’t let himself relax much.  The trauma of what had happened before when he’d fallen asleep thinking everything was going to be okay was sharp and fresh and awful, so he refused to let himself succumb to the allure of that again.  He was so fucking exhausted, but he didn’t sleep, not even when the others came and gently offered to sit with Steve so that he could.  His own version of the serum was powerful in its own right, and he could days without sleeping if he needed to.  Plus HYDRA had made sure their prized assassin could function under extreme physical duress, so the headache he had and the  sore back and itchy eyes and rumbling, nauseated stomach and the fact that his mouth tasted like swill…  He could ignore all that.

Which was stupid as hell, to be frank, and as he sat there, hunched in his chair, holding Steve’s left hand close and staring at his face, he could practically hear Steve admonish him for being such an idiot.  Steve wouldn’t have wanted him doing this to himself.  Of course, that was hypocritical as hell, considering all the stupid shit Steve had done for Bucky’s sake.  Throwing his shield down on a crashing helicarrier and letting the Winter Soldier nearly beat him to death definitely belonged in that category.  In the face of that, keeping a constant vigil despite discomforts seemed like a minor sacrifice.

“Bucky?”

Bucky blinked and tore his bleary gaze from Steve’s bed.  It took some effort to do that, more than it should have, enough to make him wonder just how long he’d been blankly watching Steve sleep.  Bruce and Tony were behind him.  “Hey,” Bruce said, offering a small smile.  “Everything okay?”

Bucky swallowed through a dry throat.  He turned back to Steve, who hadn’t stirred of course.  His eyes were still sunken and tightly closed.  A nasal cannula was around his face.  The nurses had come in and changed his ripped, bloody hospital gown hours ago, dressing him a fresh one after changing his bandages.  They’d also taken care of the stitches that had torn during his seizures.  Thankfully, there hadn’t been too much new damage.  The new pads and gauze looked so starkly white, particularly around Steve’s head where the wound to the back of his skull was.  Steve’s face was covered in stubble (of course, given it had been almost thirty-six hours since he’d been hurt at this point).  That made him seem smaller somehow.  Smaller and somehow sicker.

Bucky rubbed his metal fingers over Steve’s hand.  “Yeah, he’s okay.”

Bruce smiled as he came closer.  “I meant you.”

“Oh.”  Bucky sniffled, trying desperately not to feel.  Not to cry.  After falling apart so completely before, he hadn’t shed a tear since.  It had felt strange, to be honest.  He hadn’t cried in front of anyone besides Steve in forever, hadn’t ever let himself be that weak or vulnerable.  But when push had come to shove back there, there just hadn’t been a choice.  He could have lost Steve.  _I could have lost him again._ He brushed his thumb over Steve’s wedding ring.  “I’m fine.”

Tony wasn’t convinced, though he seemed reticent to act on that.  And incredibly uncomfortable, now that the immediate threat was over.  “You sure?” he asked.

Bucky cleared his throat.  “Yeah.  It’s fine.”  He could feel the two other men share another doubtful look, but he ignored it.  He really was fine.  He could do this as long as he needed to.  He wasn’t leaving again, wasn’t sleeping again, wasn’t risking anything again.  He sighed.  “What’s goin’ on?”

Bruce came closer, setting the same silver case with the SHIELD logo atop one the gleaming table near the foot of the bed.  “I think we’re ready to administer the antidote,” he declared.

Bucky turned sharply at that.  He didn’t know if he should be scared or relieved or excited.  He was a bit of all three.  “Already?”

“The latest round of blood tests came back with good results,” Bruce said, opening the case.  He was practically beaming.  “ _Very_ good results.  The contaminated serum is almost completely gone.”

“That was fast,” Bucky murmured, watching as the two men opened the case.  Tony fumbled in the cart over on the side of the room for some supplies while Bruce took out the blue pouches.  The red ones were gone, of course, drained dry earlier.  That also made Bucky uneasy, that that… _poison_ had been in Steve’s body.  _Poison turned medicine._   “Are you sure?”

“Definitely,” Bruce replied as he examined the blue pouches.  “The serum normally has a very short active period before it degrades naturally.  That’s why Steve’s body constantly makes its own supply.  That’s also the reason it’s been so hard to isolate it and replicate it.”

Bucky had learned more about the super soldier serum and Erskine’s work in the last twenty-four hours than he had in the last few years, which was pretty shameful when he thought about it, considering how much he (and the world) relied on it.  “So that’s it then.  This is over.”

“Well, after we give him this,” Bruce gently corrected.  He paused a moment, looking with a relieved (and a bit of a proud) smile at the monitors.  At Steve’s nice, steady pulse and respiration rates.  His breathing was still rough, a soft, wheezing whistle that heralded damaged lungs, and of course there was everything else still wrong, but…  “This’ll knock out the agent neutralizing the serum, and once it does, everything should go back to normal.”

 _Normal._   Two days ago, things had been normal.  They’d had breakfast with the team.  Talked shop and laughed and chatted like any other morning.  Made love like any other morning.  How goddamn _quickly_ everything could change.  Like Bucky’s hand slipping from Steve’s as he’d fallen from the train.

But it could change back just as quickly.

“He’ll be okay,” Bucky said.  It wasn’t quite a question, but he wanted an answer anyway.

And Bruce gave him one, that and another warm smile.  “Yeah, he should be.  The enhanced healing factor should kick back in right away.  His vitals already look pretty good.  The damage to his lungs is worrisome, but he’s breathing on his own well enough.  The last scans we did show the head injury’s doing alright.  The serum did a lot to contend with it before everything went to hell, so the pressure around his brain is reasonable all things considered.  It didn’t rise again after the seizures, so that’s encouraging.”  Bruce shook his head.  “But really none of that will matter.  Once we get this antidote in him and the serum gets back into gear, he’ll be just fine.  Don’t worry.”

Bucky offered his own smile at that, and Bruce nodded to him.  Together he and Tony readied the infusion.  Bucky willed his tired body from the chair so that they could have more room as Tony connected the IV line and Bruce looked over Steve, checking his injuries, measuring his vitals and such.  He seemed pleased with what he found, probably relieved that Steve wasn’t making a liar out of him.  “Yeah.  He’s fine.”

“How long will it take for this stuff to start working?” Bucky asked, aching with anxiety the second the bright blue liquid began to drip into the IV lines.

Bruce was tapping the computer monitors over Steve’s bed.  “Should be fairly fast.  A few hours?  I’ll be back to take blood in an hour or so and see how things are going.  By then the levels of new serum in his blood will be detectable.”

 _A few hours._   A few more hours, and then this could be over.  This whole nightmare would become a blip, and they’d be back to where they were last night, with Steve on the road to recovery.  It was almost too good to believe.

“You sure you’re okay?” Bruce asked again.  That pulled Bucky from staring at Steve’s peaceful face, and he forced a nod, swallowing down a grateful sob and praying his face didn’t betray how rattled he was.  Bruce smiled, finishing up with the infusion and the notes he was entering into a StarkPad by the bed.  “Okay.  Just hold tight.”  He hesitated a second before awkwardly patting Bucky on the shoulder in an obvious show of comfort and solidarity.  Then he left.

Tony stayed.  He was quiet, though, and had been through all of that, which was all kinds of unusual.  Bucky still stood at the foot of the bed, and the tension between them turned viscous and uncomfortable.  The beeping of the machines was unbearably loud again, and even though it was rude and awful as hell, Bucky just wanted Stark gone.  Tony kept lingering, though, looking down on Steve, fidgeting a bit, and it was clear he wanted to say something.  Finally, he did.  “I’m sorry about before.”

Bucky hadn’t been expecting that at all.  “What?”

Tony finally turned and faced him.  “Back there when…  Well, I was pushing hard.  About what to do when Steve was…  About how to handle it.  I pushed really hard about what I thought.  I kind of forgot that what I thought isn’t…  Fuck, I don’t do this kind of shit.”  He looked down.  Bucky waited, equally uncertain.  Tony sighed.  “What I think isn’t as important as what _you_ think.  At least not when it comes to Steve.  Bros don’t come before… husbands.”  There was an inappropriate saying in there, Bucky thought, but Tony looked too hurt for him to pry about it.  “So I’m…  I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”  Bucky didn’t quite know what to say.  Part of him just felt uncomfortable as hell, as he always did with it came to dealing with Tony one-on-one.  Part of him felt guilty that Tony was this troubled.  But the biggest part of him?  That was simply unbelievably _glad_.  “Tony, you don’t have to apologize to me.  If it hadn’t been for you, Steve would’ve died.”  Tony opened his mouth, probably to argue, but Bucky went on.  “He would’ve.  I didn’t know what to do, so, hell, what you think…  It matters a whole lot.”  He sighed himself.  “I should be thanking you.  You saved him.”

Just like that, Tony’s hard expression loosened.  Bucky wondered how often it was that Tony received praise like this.  The other man always struck him as someone who’d had so much shallow, surface affection in his life due to his wealth and status that when something genuine came his way, it really hit home.  If the light in his eyes and smile coming to his face was any indication, this time was no exception.  “Yeah,” Tony said after a beat, grinning just a bit smugly.  “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?  I kick ass like that.  I’d like to say it was all my idea…  Well, Banner’s not here.  It was all my idea.”  Bucky couldn’t stop a small smile.  Tony grinned, too. He nodded vigorously.  “Yeah, my idea.”

Bucky smiled more.  Tony vibrated by the side of the bed for a moment, like this sour feeling had been bothered him all afternoon but had now suddenly vanished.  He seemed to gather himself, and he looked at Bucky.  “Okay, so…  Yeah.  You look like you need a break.  You want one?  Shower?  Nap?  Because it’s cool if you do.  I can sit with him for a bit.”

This time the request wasn’t made so tensely, which made it even easier for Bucky to brush aside.  “No, I’m fine.  I can keep at this for a while yet.”  It was pretty clear Tony didn’t like that answer, though he wasn’t angry.  A flash of disappointment worked its way across his features, and Bucky couldn’t help but feel guilty once more.  It was more than obvious Tony was just trying to help, that maybe he wanted the chance to be with Steve for a bit, to make sure himself that Steve was okay.  It was another sharp reminder that somehow, as crazy and screwed up as it was, Bucky had come back _into_ Steve’s life, where Steve had already had friends who cared about him deeply.  “But in a bit…  Yeah.  Yeah, that’d be fine.  Maybe you can get him to come around.”

Tony brightened a bunch.  “Really?”

Bucky shrugged.  “He does listen to pretty much everything you say.”  _Which is a hell of a feat._

Tony beamed even more.  “He does.  Because everything I say is clearly golden.”  Bucky had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.  “Genius.  Every word.  But I can’t make promises, you know, because I, uh…  He’s kinda like Sleeping Beauty, and I don’t do true love’s first kiss.  That’s your department.  Bros not before–”

“Tony.”

“Did you try that, by the way?  The magical smooch of destiny?”

“Stark!”

“Right.  Shut it.  That’s cool.  Okay.  I’ll be back in a bit then.”

“Okay.”

With a giddy smile, Stark was gone.  Bucky exhaled slowly, standing at the foot of Steve’s bed a bit longer.  “Pretty crazy, huh, Stevie?” he quietly commented.  Steve didn’t respond, didn’t move at all.  Bucky grinned all the same, rather proud of himself.  “All the worryin’ you do about Stark and me…  Too bad you missed that.”  He was smiling at Steve’s sleeping face, smiling for himself and letting himself feel better.

Then he wearily plodded to the ensuite bathroom.  Once inside, he used the facilities before standing at the vanity a moment with his eyes closed.  He turned on the tap and splashed some cold water on his face, trying to ward off his exhaustion.  It felt good despite his aversion to most things icy on his skin.  He did it a few more times, letting the chilly liquid rinse away stale sweat and soothe his stinging eyes and cheeks.  When he leaned up, face dripping, he caught sight of his reflection.  Even months after escaping from HYDRA, months after getting himself back, learning himself again, _knowing_ who he was and who he had been…  It still took him aback sometimes.  He looked like…  Well, like he always did.  Gray eyes and cleft chin and facial hair that was more a beard than scruff and shoulder-length brown hair that had a shine and fullness to it that it never had before.  Maybe he was a little pale with dark circles of worry and grief around slightly hollowed out eyes, but otherwise he was fine.  Normal.  That was how things had become.  Normal.

_This’ll be over, and we can go back to normal._

_Hell of a second mission._

Bucky grunted a twisted chuckle.  He dried his face with the towel before sighing and straightening his jeans and sweatshirt.  Then he did his hair up in a messy bun and went back outside.

Steve was awake, his hazy blue eyes half-lidded but _open_.

Shock blasted over Bucky, freezing his feet to the floor for a second.  Despite all the time he’d spent _waiting_ for this, actually having it happen…  _Oh, God!_   “Steve?”

Steve blinked languidly, shifting just a bit in the bed, and Bucky rushed to his side.  He leaned right over him, getting directly into his line of sight, and took up his hand again.  Squeezing that, he brushed his palm over Steve’s forehead, caressing the lusterless hair off his brow.  “Steve!  Steve, doll, it’s Buck.  It’s Bucky!”

Steve blinked again.  Bucky gasped a happy sob, eyes welling with fresh tears, gently cupping Steve’s face.  He waited a moment, waited for Steve to wake up all the way.  He knew from past experiences (his own and seeing Steve come out of unconsciousness too many times before) that it could take some time for the mind to reconnect to the senses and the body, particularly after a serious injury.

Something about this, though…  It didn’t seem quite right.  Steve blinked more, murmuring a slurred, soft word Bucky couldn’t discern.  He leaned even closer, trying to anchor his husband as best he could, trying to be patient.  “Sweetheart…  I’m right here.  Look at me.”  He raised Steve’s hand, kissing his knuckles.  “Right here, darling.  Right here.”

Steve didn’t seem to be able to focus on him.  He just kept blinking, eyes roving a bit, cloudy and glazed.  Bucky watched, worried, and as suddenly as Steve came back to him, he slipped away again.  Bucky’s heart dropped, and he sniffled, letting go of Steve’s face to wipe at his own wet eyes.  “Stubborn punk,” he said fondly, dropping down to kiss Steve’s forehead.  “Back to doing everythin’ your way.  And the hard way, every damn time.”  Then he settled in to watch the antidote drip down into the IV line and wait.

True to his word, Bruce was back in an hour.  It was very punctual, how he arrived exactly sixty minutes later with a couple nurses to take a blood sample and check Steve’s vitals again, which was overkill; Bucky knew for a fact that Friday was monitoring Steve closely, in addition to the complex’s computer system streaming Steve’s information to the nurse’s station just outside and undoubtedly to the smart phones and tablets of the doctors and Bruce and Tony themselves.  Still, it was comforting that Bruce was all over the situation.  “How is he?” the scientist asked as he watched the nurses acquire the blood sample from Steve’s arm.

Bucky folded his arms over his chest.  “Alright.  He woke up a little before.”

Bruce turned to him at that, mouth turning into a hopeful grin.  “Yeah?”

Bucky nodded.  “Just for a minute, if that.  He tried to look at me, tried to say something maybe, and then passed out again.”

Bruce hummed a bit, taking the vial of blood in his gloved hand.  “That’s good.  Probably means he’ll come around soon.  The serum’s already doing what it’s supposed to.”  He nodded to himself, pleased again, and left with the nurses to run his tests.

Bucky went back to his chair.  Not a few minutes after that, Steve stirred again, shifting more in the bed and whispering another slurred mess of words Bucky couldn’t pick apart.  Bucky rubbed his hand over Steve’s arm in comforting sweeps, watching as his eyelids fluttered before parting anew.  Once more they didn’t seem to focus, roving the ceiling overhead lethargically like he was searching for something.  “Steve?” Bucky called hopefully.  “Stevie?”  He leaned closer, squeezing harder with one hand and reaching for Steve’s face.  “Stevie, doll…  I’m over…” 

He didn’t finish, because Steve’s eyes slipped back shut.  Sighing, Bucky sank into the chair.

This happened a few more times over the course of the next hour.  Steve would start to wake, would open his eyes, perhaps mumble a few words.  Bucky would always be right there, holding his hand, stroking his hair or his cheek, fervently but gently trying to coax him more to awareness.  It never seemed to work.  Bucky was trying not to get frustrated, but, God, he was desperate to have Steve back.  After all this, the rollercoaster of the last day and half, all the waiting…  He didn’t think he could stand this anymore.  He wanted Steve to open his eyes, _look_ at him, and tell him he was okay.  He _needed_ that.

A little later on, Bruce came back, this time alone.  He seemed… unsettled, entering without much of a greeting, rushing to the bedside with the phlebotomy kit and the case from SHIELD.  Bucky got of his way.  “What’s happening?” he asked, gut twisting in sudden anxiety.

Bruce glanced at him as he donned some gloves wrapped the tourniquet around Steve’s bicep.  “Oh,” he said, surprised, like he’d forgotten Bucky was there.  “Gotta change out the infusion.”  He glanced up at the bag on the IV line that was nearly empty and, like his thoughts were all scattered, he left what he was doing with the tourniquet on and the supplies all unwrapped and spread out on the little rolling table.  Instead he went to open the SHIELD case.  He grabbed the second of the blue pouches and quickly swapped out the bags.  “Get this done.”

Bucky squinted in confusion.  “Doctor Banner?”

“It’s, uh… probably nothing.”  He finished up and then came back to where he’d abandoned the blood draw halfway through the procedure.  Taking Steve’s arm, he searched for a vein.  The silence was awful.  Bucky couldn’t stand it, and he was about to press again, but Bruce sighed as he inserted the needle and watched the blood run into the collection vial.  “The levels of serum in his blood…  Well, they’re not what I predicted they would be.”

Bucky’s heart stopped.  “What does that mean?”

Bruce sighed.  He took another vial of blood.  “At this point?  It means just that: they’re not what I thought they would be.”  That was nothing but aggravating, and Bucky opened his mouth to ask more.  Bruce beat him to it.  “I figured by now we’d see the serum levels in his blood approaching twenty or thirty percent their normal concentration.”

“They’re not?”

“Not yet,” Bruce said firmly.  He pulled the needle and started to clean up.  “Steve’s body has been through a tremendous shock.  The serum’s been through one, too.  There’s no data to really model how this process is going to work.  I predicted the timeline based on what I know about the serum, simulated SHIELD data, and how quickly the bioagent shut the serum down to begin with, but none of that is necessarily reliable.  I’m guessing in the dark, so it’s not surprising that my outcomes are off.”

What the hell did any of that mean?  “So everything’s okay?”

“Yeah,” Bruce answered.  He took the case with the antidote and the blood samples and headed back out the door.  “Don’t worry.”

That was just about the impossible dream.

Another hour slipped away.   Bucky spent that one pacing.  He was too frazzled to do anything else.  Steve flirted with consciousness again and again, but still he couldn’t latch onto anything in the waking world.  More and more Bucky felt like Steve was trying to find him, but he couldn’t.  _He will._  He kept telling himself that every time Steve came to but then fell back asleep without really noticing him.  One time Bucky was sure Steve had to have seen him; he was looming right over him again, so close that there was no way those hazy eyes _couldn’t_ have focused on him.  But Steve hadn’t seemed to, drifting off anew in an increasingly frustrating cycle of hope and then failure.

_He’ll get back to normal.  Just have to give it time._

Only the minutes kept slipping away.  Bucky’s patience slipped with them.

And Tony never came back, which was… odd.

A soft knock came at the opened, glass door.  “Hey,” Sam called.  Bucky turned from where he’d been watching the sun go down out of windows.  Sam looked freshly showered and more well-rested.  He was dressed in jeans and a mustard-colored polo shirt.  He’d been around during the day, slipping in and out to check on Steve and Bucky before attending to Avengers business.  Now he was back, and he had a plastic bag with him, which he lifted.  “Brought some dinner.”

“Are we allowed to eat in here?” Bucky asked, dropping his arms from his chest and coming over to the chairs beside the bed.

Sam was staring at Steve’s slumbering form.  “No idea.  Not sure that I care if we’re not.”

Bucky had to agree with that, though the thought of food right then wasn’t overly appealing.  Sam unloaded his bag on the bigger table in the little seating area in the corner of the room.  “Got you a sandwich.  Here.”  He handed Bucky the wrapped-up meal.

Bucky could smell it already: an Italian sub with dressing, onions, and all kinds of meats and cheeses.  That was his favorite, and normally he’d devour it, but right then the smell turned his already strained stomach.  “Thanks, but I’m–”

“Eat it,” Sam ordered, pulling out a couple bags of chips and some bottles of water.  “Even a super soldier needs food, and you don’t do Steve or anyone else any good if you wear yourself down.”  Bucky scowled a tad but sat and started digging into his meal.  He was a soldier and a Depression-era kid besides; he really knew better than to turn down food, even if he wasn’t all that hungry.  Sam was already chowing down on his sub, though he was eating in a way that suggested expediency over enjoyment.  He shook his head incredulously.  “Can’t believe I gotta tell you the same shit I was telling him.”

“What?” Bucky asked after chewing and swallowing hard.  It felt like he was gnawing on rocks, and nothing tasted like anything.

Sam tipped his head toward Steve’s hospital bed.  “When you were hurting so much after we brought you back.  And when we were searching for you, come to think of it.  Steve wasn’t so great at taking care of himself.”

 _He never has been._   Bucky stared at his husband, feeling exhausted all over again.  Sam ate a moment before saying, “At least the feeding frenzy in the media’s died down a bit.  Did you ever get to see the press conference?”

Bucky nodded.  He’d caught it last night before the serum had become so screwed up and everything had gone to hell.  Tony had gotten up in front of the cameras and microphones right at the hospital’s entrance and told the press and the world at large that Captain America had taken a serious hit, but he was recovering from his wounds comfortably and that there’d be no lasting damage.  It’d be no time at all before he was up and out with the Avengers again.  Tony had been dressed in a nice suit, cleaned up from the battle, representing the team and SHIELD with surprising composure, power, and grace.  He’d acted so nonchalant, like this was just another thing that happened.  At the time, Bucky hadn’t thought twice about it except to be grateful that Tony had handled it.

Sam obviously shared that sentiment.  “Got the job done,” he said, wiping his hands on a napkin.  He sighed and spent a second mulling.  “You kinda forget sometimes just how important Captain America is to people.  I mean, you don’t, but you do, because it’s just Steve, and he’s not…  Well, I mean…”  Sam huffed.  “You know what I mean.”

Bucky did.  It wasn’t that it was unbelievable that Steve could be so loved and revered, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it.  God, did he ever, and every day Bucky thanked his lucky stars that Steve was getting so much recognition and respect, that he’d become such a symbol, first to the troops during the war and then to the American people and now to citizens the world over.  The enormity of that was still overwhelming sometimes because to them, to the team and Sam and Bucky himself, Steve was just…  _Steve._   Steve the artist who was sketching constantly and who secretly wanted to go back to art school someday.  Steve who cooked for everyone, who was always there to listen, who sang off key and who loved Disney movies and who put hot sauce on almost everything and who left his laundry on the floor.  Steve who had a tendency to grab at people’s chests when he really laughed, who could make everything better with a kind word, whose disapproving frown was infamous.  The world was afraid of losing its hero, but for the team, it was of course so much more than that.

“Fury was right to ask Stark to do it.  Not just to make people feel better, but Tony always seems so damn calm and confident when the shit hits the fan,” Sam said, going back to his sandwich.  “He always seems to know what he’s talking about.”

That made Bucky think about what Tony had said to him before.  “Have you seen him this afternoon?”

Sam took a gulp of his water.  “Not really.  Why?”

Another bite of sandwich went down a little easier than the first.  “He said he wanted to stay with Steve for a while, but he never came back.”

Sam considered that, glancing back at Steve and empty chairs by the hospital bed as if he could deduce something from that.  “I think he’s holed up in the lab with Bruce.”  Bucky’s stomach turned, and he set his sandwich down.  Sam noticed that (and probably the blood draining from his face) and shook his head.  “Not sure that it’s anything.  They were talking about trying to run some analyses on Fury’s Captain-America-killer.”

“Christ,” Bucky muttered, “don’t call it that.”

Sam’s jaw clenched in ire.  “What the hell else should I call it?  I’m still fucking furious about the whole thing.  I know we have to work with SHIELD, but they don’t do themselves any favors in earning my trust when they do shit like this.  Apparently their lies have lies.”  He dropped his voice and leaned forward.  “I overheard Nat talking to Fury before.  He said he’s had that case in his possession for five years.  Five years!  He’s been hiding it, and he never thought to turn it over to us.  When she asked why, he said he couldn’t trust _anyone_ knowing about it, even the team.”

Bucky supposed that made sense.  “If the drug got out–”

“That’s just the thing.  We’re damn lucky it didn’t!  HYDRA was inside SHIELD.  They would’ve _killed_ for a weapon like that.”  As if Bucky could ever forget that.  As if Bucky could _ever_ forget just how evil HYDRA had been, just how cruel and cunning they could be.  Sam must have realized what he was saying was obvious (and pointless).  He heaved a sigh, leaving the rest of his sandwich uneaten and pushing it away a bit.  “Just terrifying to think this stuff was out there all along.  A way to take Steve down.  And if Steve goes down…  I don’t want to think about it.  Today was terrible enough.”

 _A way to save his life, too._   Bucky didn’t say that, though.  Sam stared morosely had his half-finished dinner.  “Well, it’s over.  I’m not sure what’ll come of it.  And I’m not sure what Banner and Stark are doing.  The answer better not be studying it or making more.”

That gave Bucky pause.  He’d spent enough time with Tony and Bruce (particularly with them poking around at his arm) to know sometimes science overruled common sense.  The whole mess with Ultron was proof of that.  Still, understanding better how the whole thing worked was inherently bad, was it?  And having more of the antidote wouldn’t hurt.

There wasn’t much time to think about it because a couple of nurses abruptly came into Steve’s room.  They didn’t bother with introducing themselves, rushing to Steve’s bedside and fumbling for his left arm.  It took Bucky a moment to realize they were taking another blood sample.  Again.  That was the third in three hours.  “What’s going on?” Sam asked, brows furrowed in concern.

“Doctor Banner needs more blood,” one the nurses explained.  She seemed frazzled, hardly glancing at the two Avengers as she held Steve’s arm steady for her colleague.  She managed a harried smile.  “Nothing to be concerned about.”

 _Bullshit._   “He was just here less than an hour ago,” Bucky insisted, standing and coming closer to the bed.  “How could he need more?”

The nurse gave an exasperated sigh.  “I don’t know, sir.  They just told us to get another sample as soon as possible.”

The gnawing sense of unease got worse.  Why wouldn’t Bruce come if he needed more blood?  And _why_ did he need more?  Bucky looked up at the monitors but found that Steve’s vital signs were the same.  Everything looked fairly good, considering how hurt he was.  “Is he okay?” he demanded, turning back to the young woman.  “Is he?”

Faced with the Winter Soldier, the girl blanched.  “He seems to be,” she replied, but there was no assurance in her voice.  “You’d have to ask Doctor Banner.”

“Fine.”  Sam was clearly agitated as he stood as well.  “I’ll go find him.  Figure out what’s going on.”

Bucky hardly noticed Sam leaving.  Instead he was watching Steve as he started to come around again.  Weakly he pulled his arm away, and the nurses hadn’t been prepared for that, and the needle came loose.  “Captain Rogers!” gasped the same nurse, and they fumbled to get his arm steady again.  “Captain Rogers, please.  Just…”  Steve moaned, his face twisting up in a grimace.  For the first time since he’d started waking up, it was obvious he was in pain.

That had Bucky pushing his way to the other side of the bed.  He took Steve’s other hand, weaving their fingers together, and leaned over the bed.  “Steve?  Can you hear me?  Hold still.”

“Captain Rogers, sir, let us–”

Steve moaned louder and struggled harder.   Bucky reached over and took Steve’s wrist, trying to keep him immobile for them.  With his enhanced strength returning, it’d be difficult for the nurses to hold his arm.

But it wasn’t that hard at all.  Steve was too weak, too sick.  Bucky pressed his wrist into the bed and let the nurses do their work, but that knot was tightening more inside him.  Steve’s eyes were open, but he just kept blinking and blinking.  Like all the times before it, that just didn’t seem right, and Bucky felt sick with anxiety.  “Stevie,” he called, leaning close anew and not giving a damn that the nurses were watching him.  “Stevie, it’s Buck.  Come on.  Look at me.  _Look at me._ ”  Steve turned his head away like he was scared.  Bucky put his other hand to Steve’s cheek, gently turning his face back and making Steve look at him.  “Sweetheart, I’m right here.  Look _right here_.  Don’t you see me?”

Steve shivered and his eyelids drooped.  Bucky stared at him, but there was just nothing there.  His eyes were off, unfocused, glazed and strange.  His mouth shifted, the pink of his tongue darting out to lick dry, bruised lips, and he whispered something Bucky once again couldn’t make out.  It sounded like his name.  It had to be his name, because Steve knew he was there.  “Yeah, love.  Right here.  You’re gonna be okay, you know?  Everythin’s okay.  Just stay awake.  Please stay awake.”

Steve didn’t.  Again.  His eyes closed, and Bucky bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood.  He let go of Steve’s arm and his face, leaning back and feeling dizzy with fear.  He hardly saw the nurses finishing up the blood draw, hardly heard them telling him not to worry, hardly noticed them leave.  The sinking realization that had been itching under his skin, crawling around his thoughts, souring his blood…  He couldn’t ignore it anymore.

_Something’s wrong._

Even still, it took him a bit to muster the courage to accept it.  The world condensed anew down to the hospital room, to the long evening shadows stretching inside, to the monitors steadily reporting Steve’s vitals.  To Steve himself, sleeping more and more fitfully in the bed, squirming probably from the pain.  He was becoming rigid with it, and Bucky knew he needed to do make this better.  He needed to get Steve relief.  He needed help.  He needed answers.  He needed to know what was happening.

He needed to _do_ something.

It felt like he was trapped in his own denial and terror for forever, but in reality it was only another five or ten minutes.  No one came back during that time, not the nurses or the doctors or Tony, Bruce, or Sam, and Bucky was jittery with nerves, pacing and fidgeting and sitting and bouncing his leg only to stand and pace again.  He walked the length of the spacious hospital room over and over, checking Steve but then moving to the door to look check the hallways or the window to look outside but coming right back because he couldn’t just stay away.  But he couldn’t just _stay here_ , either.

Agitated and scared, he went back to Steve, pulled the hospital blanket securely up and over his lower body again.  He grasped Steve’s face, kissing his lax lips briefly.  “I’ll be back right away,” he promised.  The thought of leaving Steve was pretty terrifying, but there wasn’t a choice, not when he was this riled and certain something was off.  So he walked rapidly out of the room and down the halls of the complex’s ICU back towards where the labs were.

It didn’t take much time at all to find the others.  Bucky probably could have heard the argument even without superior hearing.  “I can’t believe this.”  That was Sam, and his voice was shaking.  “I can’t fucking _believe this!”_

“What do you want me to say, Sam?”  Tony.  His voice was also tremoring and taut with anger.  “What do you want–”

“I want you to fix this!”

“Don’t you think we’re trying?  Don’t you think we’re doing everything we possibly can?”

“This was _your_ goddamn idea!”

“I do not understand.”  That voice was deeper, filled with pain and shock.  _Thor._   “You are saying the serum levels are too low in his blood to help him heal.”

Bruce spoke next.  His tone was quiet.  Subdued.  _Defeated._ “They’re not too low.  They’re nonexistent.”

Bucky stopped dead in his tracks.  The glass walls of the lab weren’t tinted anymore.  He could see the team gathered in the back of the huge area, crowded around a group of holographic workstations that were aglow and loaded with data.  Numbers and reports and charts and graphs.  Three-dimensional models of molecules, one that was red and another that was blue.  Clearly they were the bioagent and its cure.  The drug that had shut the serum down and the one that was meant to restore it.

Sam was near the back, sweating, an expression of utter horror on his face that Bucky had never seen before.  “You’re saying…  No.  Oh, God…”

“That’s not possible,” Natasha added.  She was beside Bruce, staring him with imploring eyes.

“It shouldn’t be!” Tony replied.  Rage had him furiously working at one the terminal.  “It fucking shouldn’t be!  We looked this over!  The data SHIELD had showed it working!  It was _supposed_ to work!”

“Jesus,” Clint moaned.  He turned away, one hand on his hip and the other scrubbing through his hair.

“Just explain,” Thor demanded tensely.  “In simple terms.”

No one spoke a moment.  Then Bruce sighed and stepped forward.  “Here.”  He threw the data onto the display, and a chart appeared.  “This is the normal amount of serum in Steve’s blood before he was exposed to the radiation from the weapon when he was hurt.  It’s highly concentrated as it should be.  The few times I’ve had samples from him to check since 2014, I’ve kept a log of its amounts.  Now look over here.  This is when he was exposed to the radiation.  The levels go up drastically, and the serum that was being produced was contaminated.”

“And that is where we shut the serum down,” Natasha surmised quietly, pointing to where the high, steady line on the chart dove down into nothing.

Bruce nodded.  “Yes.  And this…”  He tapped a spot on the display and a time stamp appeared on the line.  “This is when we gave him the antidote.  That was more than three hours ago.  I’ve taken three blood samples since then.  By now, based on all the data SHIELD had and my own models, I anticipated the new serum levels would have risen to about thirty or maybe even forty percent of their normal levels.  They haven’t.  They’re…  They’re zero.”

“Zero?” Clint repeated incredulously.

Again Bruce nodded.  “There’s just…”  He couldn’t finish.  “I…  I don’t know.  I don’t know what to say.  This should be working, and it’s…  It’s not.”

The group went silent.  No one moved, not at all.  Eyes were empty and faces were slack with shock.  The air was thick with misery.  Bucky still stood outside.  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.  Couldn’t do anything again.  The truth hissed inside him, a whisper that got louder and louder.

_The serum won’t come back on._

“Oh, God,” Sam finally whimpered, breaking the terrible, choking quiet.  He leaned into one of the workbenches like he’d been physically beaten.  “ _We_ did this to him.”

Tony ripped around, eyes wild.  “There was no choice!  He would have died!”

“We don’t know that,” Bruce offered meekly.  His voice was utterly flat.

Tony turned on him now.  “We _do_ know that!  God, Bruce, you knew it twelve hours ago!  You fucking saw it!  We _all_ did!”  He whirled, staring down the rest of the team like he was daring them to argue.  “The serum was fucking _poisoning_ him!  If we hadn’t–”

“You said the antidote would work!” Sam returned sharply.  “We trusted what you said!”

“There was no time, or don’t you remember the fact that Steve’s heart kept going into arrest!  He was fucking flatlining!  We had, what, _fifteen minutes_ to figure this out?  We had to trust what Fury said!”

Sam’s eyes flashed.  “That was the first mistake,” he snarled.  He got into Tony’s space.  “Trusting anything SHIELD gave you.  Trusting people who’d design a bioweapon against Captain America!”

“Fury would never hurt Steve,” Natasha said, her voice stronger now with pain and anger of her own.  “He’d never.”

“SHIELD was HYDRA,” Thor retorted, glaring at her.  “How are we to know the scientists who designed this toxin were genuine?  They could have been our enemies, and now we have blindly unleashed this weapon of theirs on Steve!”

“No,” Clint snapped, shaking his head.  “No, come on.  That’s ridiculous.  This isn’t a fucking conspiracy.  This whole thing was untested, and that’s the problem, and maybe we just need more–”

“I’m not sure time will matter,” Bruce softly said.  He seemed shaken to his core.  “I – I just…  I don’t know.  I don’t know!”

Everything was falling apart.  “You don’t know,” Sam spat, voice twisted in a horrified, hateful sob.  “You didn’t know!  You should have found out!  You sent the information out to Wakanda, to Cho, to other people who might have known what to do, but you didn’t wait.  You just decided what was best and fucking _did it_ –”

“Steve was dying!  _He was dying!_ ”

“Does this mean he won’t heal?”

“If we can’t turn the serum back on–”

“I don’t know!”

“By the Allfather, this cannot be happening…”

“What choice did we have?  You tell me!  _What else could we have done?”_

Bucky couldn’t answer that, and he couldn’t listen to any more.  The fight was spreading, growing, building like a wildfire on the verge of burning out of control, and he couldn’t watch that.  The world turned dimmed and distant again, a blur of motion and a hum of sound that didn’t have meaning.  He didn’t have to let it in.

Instead he turned and walked back to Steve’s room.  He wasn’t feeling anything, too numb and overwhelmed to allow emotions any sway over him.  He simply focused on what he had to do.  Walking was simple.  One foot in front of the other.  Breathing.  He could do that, sucking air in through his nose and out through his mouth.  Getting back to Steve, because Steve needed him.  If Steve woke up and he wasn’t there, if Steve couldn’t see him there…

He stopped dead in his tracks again.  _No.  Oh, God, no._

And then he ran.  He tore through the hallways of the medical wing, sprinting past alarmed nurses and doctors, turning corners sharply and racing back toward Steve’s room.  He burst inside with a gasp, staggering to the bed.  What he was thinking couldn’t be true.  It just couldn’t be.  He had to wake Steve up, and then he’d find out it wasn’t, that he was afraid for nothing.

Of course, Steve wasn’t awake, not really.  He hadn’t moved.  He was exactly as Bucky had left him, sleeping restlessly, and the monitors were still streaming his vital signs.  Bucky charged to the side of the bed, knocking aside the chair where he’d sat all day.  His eyes were wide, his breath coming in shallow pants, and he fumbled for Steve’s hand.  “Steve?  Steve?”

At first, Steve didn’t stir.  Bucky hovered, frantically watching, waiting, hoping something was different…

But nothing was.  Steve’s eyes finally opened again, and they were still hazy, dark, cloudy and unfocused.  And Steve blinked and blinked, looking around oddly.   _Searching._   Searching for what was right in front of his face.  “Steve,” Bucky called again, rubbing a hand over Steve’s stubbled cheek and turning his face back.  “Steve, it’s me.  C’mon.  I’m right here.  I’m here.”

Steve’s lips shifted more, but this time Bucky understood him.  “Buck…”

Bucky’s heart leapt, soared.  “Yeah, sweetheart.  Right here.”

“… where?”

And _fell._   He choked on his breath, leaning even closer, right in front of those hazy blue eyes.  “Right here, baby.  Right in front of you.”  Steve’s eyes roved again, blinking more and more.  Tears leaked from them in a steady stream.  Bucky’s own tears rolled down his face, hot and stinging.  “Baby…  I’m right here.”

“Bucky…”

“Right here, Steve.  Right here!”

Steve’s face twisted up in pain, and he squeezed his eyes shut.  “What…  Ev’ry’thin’s…”

 _Please, not this.  Please._   “Sweetheart, look at me,” Bucky gasped, sobs twisting his voice.  “Look at me!  Please look at me!”

Steve’s eyes opened again.  “Bucky…  Buck, where…  I can’t… I – what’s…”  He gave a soft wail, squirming uselessly in the bed, flailing with a shaking hand.  Those blue eyes were full of tears and so dull.

So empty.

“I can’t see you,” Steve whimpered.  “I can’t see you!”

Bucky heaved a sob, gathering Steve against himself as much as possible.  He grabbed Steve’s trembling hand, grabbed it and pulled it close between them.  He kissed it as hard as he could, kissed it and kissed Steve’s forehead and Steve’s cheeks and Steve’s mouth.  He kissed and kissed, because he couldn’t speak.  He couldn’t say anything, because if he did, he’d lose what little remained of his composure.  He’d cry without any hope of stopping.  He’d curse and shout.  He’d scream.  He couldn’t do this.  He couldn’t.

Steve couldn’t see him.

Steve was _blind._

And the sound of his hitched, terrified breathing was all Bucky could hear.


	6. Chapter 6

**PART TWO**

 

Captain America was a hero.

Heroes often fell in the line of duty.  It was the awful cost of their role, though not one that should be unexpected.  Their lives were dangerous, difficult, and many times at risk for the sake of those they protected.  The nature of heroism dictated that.  The safety of innocents and the safe-guarding of peace often demanded sacrifice.

Still, people were never prepared to see their heroes threatened.  Within moments after the attack in New York, footage of Captain America being struck with the energy from the alien weapons, of him staggering back and losing his balance, of him plummeting down dozens of feet to land with terrible force against the tiled floor of the building’s burning lobby…  Those devastating images were everywhere.  They’d spread like wildfire, flooding the ether of the internet with social media only serving to propagate the hysteria.  Soon, it seemed people the world over knew of Captain America’s injury, had seen him go down in vivid, awful detail, and everyone was afraid.  After all, the Avengers belonged to earth.  They were her first line of defense, a response team to stand against the unimaginable made of warriors and gods super soldiers and geniuses.  Moreover, they weren’t supposed to get hurt, Captain America least of all.  Captain America was infallible, invincible, untouchable, a legendary soldier and a symbol of unwavering strength and bravery.  Captain America was the first on the battlefield when things were at their bleakest and the last off it after the day was won.  Captain America had never fallen like this before.  Captain America _couldn’t_ be hurt.

But this time he had been, and everyone was terrified.

Hence the press conference arranged by SHIELD and given by Iron Man was much needed.  Within hours of the attack in New York, Tony Stark stood before a mound of microphones.  He stood before a massive crowd of the press and concerned citizens, stood before the world in effect given how fast and how far the footage of his official statement traveled.  He stood there as the spokesperson for SHIELD, for the Avengers.  He stood there, bruised and a little battered but clean and nicely dressed, and told the world that Captain America had been seriously hurt, but he was well on his way toward recovering.

“He’s fine.  Really.  Cap’s down right now, yes,” Stark said, as cameras flashed and video recorded and reporters furiously tweeted the news.  The second-in-command of the Avengers cleared his throat and looked down, taking a moment to gather himself.  “He took a bad hit, and it was scary.  I won’t lie about that.  But he’s fine.  Everything’s fine.  The super soldier serum is doing exactly what it’s supposed to be doing.  It’s healing him.  So he’ll be back on his feet in no time.”

There were questions, of course, questions about the nature of Captain America’s injuries, about how serious they were, about how long he’d be out of action.  “Not long,” Stark answered with a weary smile.  “You know Cap.”  And more questions about if Captain America was conscious, if he was in pain, if there was anything the American people (and the people of the world) could do.  “Nothing,” Stark responded.  “Don’t worry about it.  SHIELD has it in hand.  All he needs is your support and your well wishes.”  The reporters also wanted to know about his thoughts on the attack and the situation.  “His thoughts are the same as they always are.  He’ll do whatever is necessary to keep people safe.  He’s always willing to put his life on the line to protect you.  And he’ll always be there to lead the team and fight the threats that face this world.  So there’s nothing to worry about.”  Stark flashed a soft but confident grin.  “I swear to you: Captain America will always get back up.”

And that was how the press conference ended, with Iron Man promising the world their hero and the world cheering in relief.

Twenty-four hours later, everything had changed.  Everything he said turned out to be a lie.  _Everything._

Still, the promise had to be kept.

* * *

It was a dreary evening.  The spring skies were thick with a chilly rain, bulbous gray clouds dripping it like tears over a dismal world not yet wholly green with new life.  They were almost lethargic about it, the precipitation slowly falling, oppressive and vengeful, soaking the grounds of the Avengers complex as though to punish.

Bucky wasn’t sure they didn’t deserve it.

“Easy,” Thor murmured.  “Easy now.”

There was nothing easy about any of this, though that wasn’t what Thor meant as Bucky, Sam, and the demigod himself lowered Steve’s limp body into the bed.  They did it very carefully, settling Steve against the mattress as gently as they could so as not to hurt or wake him.  It wasn’t clear how aware Steve was; the morphine on which the doctors had him was potent, and, thanks to this nightmare, it was actually working.  As Bucky leaned back, staring at his husband’s heavily bandaged, battered body, he supposed that was a small blessing in all of this.

A very small one.

“Here,” Sam said softly, handing Thor a pillow.  Thor took it and together the two of them very carefully lifted Steve’s shattered right leg atop it.  The limb was gruesomely bruised and very swollen.  Yesterday Steve had had surgery again, this time to place more permanent metal bolts and rods (internal fixators, the orthopedists called them) to keep his broken bones in place.  The emergency procedure he’d had after he’d fallen hadn’t been sufficient, conducted at the time with the idea that the serum would do the heavy lifting and heal him quickly and therefore better support wouldn’t be necessary.  That was turning out not to be the case in almost every way.

Bucky caught himself staring at the swollen, bandaged mess of Steve’s upper thigh and averted his gaze sharply.  Natasha caught that where she stood at the foot of the bed, offering an extra blanket to him.  “You okay?” she asked softly.

Angry at himself, Bucky nodded sharply.  “Yeah,” he muttered.  He took the quilt and began draping it over Steve’s body.  “It’s cold in here.”

“Friday,” Natasha called.

“Raising the temperature three degrees,” the AI responded.  “Miss Maximoff asked me to tell you she is ordering pizza.  It will be delivered to the common kitchen shortly.”

“Thanks,” Natasha said.  She didn’t seem all that relieved, though.  Ever since Steve’s fall, she’d been very quiet, subdued, and withdrawn.  It was like all the fire that had been inside her that had driven her to be a friend and a sister to the team had been snuffed out.  She had been something of a ghost, around but silent, lifeless, and haunting.  Even now she was pale, and her eyes were empty of everything but clenched grief as she went back to watching Steve.

Sam was watching Steve, too, watching intently.  He leaned back after fussing a moment more with the pillows and blankets, getting them situated perfectly around Steve even though Steve wasn’t awake enough to care.  “You sure you’re comfortable with this?” he asked, glancing at Bucky.

 _Comfortable._   What the hell did that even mean anymore?  What the fuck did it mean to be okay?  He wasn’t okay.  No one was okay.  “Yeah,” he answered all the same.

“You don’t have to be,” Sam reminded.  “He can stay at medical.  It’s only been a week.”

 _A week._   A week since Steve had fallen in battle.  A week since the serum had been mutated and damaged by the alien weapon’s radiation.  A week since their plan to stop it and then restore it had utterly and completely failed, since everything had been twisted around and their lives had all been altered forever.

It felt like a lifetime, but it wasn’t.  In the hours right after the horrific discovery that the antidote to SHIELD’s bioagent had failed, it had been Vision who’d taken control of the situation in a sense.  In retrospect, that wasn’t all that surprising, given Vision wasn’t human and therefore in far better control of his emotions than the rest of them given the circumstances.  At the time, though, having the android sweep in and gently but firmly dictate the best courses of action had seemed weird.  Not that anyone had really cared or commented.  The enormity of what had happened had left them all stricken, in a daze of various levels of denial, pain, shock, and grief.  There was so much of all of that, so much anger that was barely contained and viciously poisonous.  Vision had been untouched, aloof and aloft, above all that.  He had been (and still was) solemn and serious as he’d commanded the SHIELD doctors to treat Steve’s situation as that of a normal, unenhanced human who’d been gravely wounded.  The serum could no longer be counted upon to handle anything, let alone the worst of his injuries.

Thus the doctors were scrambling to provide Steve with the urgent treatment he now needed.  Hours of tests had followed, CT scans and and MRIs and new bloodwork and endless assessments.  The way everyone had been considering Steve’s condition had to change immediately and drastically.  With far greater alacrity than the Avengers were managing, the entire medical staff had switched gears, abandoning prior assumptions and analyzing their patient anew.  The litany of Steve’s injuries in all of their devastating seriousness became extremely apparent.  Thanks to the wild chaos of the serum’s healing before they’d shut it down, the collapsed lung had fared better than some of Steve’s other wounds, and the potential serious complications of infection and stress upon his kidneys and other organs hadn’t come to pass.  Still, the doctors were quick to get him back on oxygen (and he’d only recently reached a state where they were comfortable with him being off of it, so that was distressing).  Apparently they’d removed part of the damaged lung tissue during the surgery to save Steve’s life, which at the time hadn’t been considered a serious issue.  Now without the serum, there was no chance his lung would recover completely.  The respiratory specialists were reticent to say it directly, but everyone knew the outcome around which they were dancing: Steve would have long-term issues with lung capacity.  The weaker lung would always trouble him.  The implications of that weren’t entirely clear yet, and nobody had wanted to discuss it more at the time, but Bucky had done his research in the bleak hours of sleepless nights.  Steve’s ability to engage in physical activity could be compromised.  He could suffer from phantom chest pains, discomfort, and he could tire easily.  It would be like his asthma had returned in some ways, and the perpetual weakness and breathing troubles that had dogged his youth could come back now to haunt him again.  It was too painful to think about.

Then there was the matter of his leg, which was no less upsetting.  Even when the serum had been working properly, he’d nearly died from blood loss thanks to the damage to the femoral artery when his femur had shattered.  The surgeons had repaired that and restored circulation to his leg right away.  Now, with the better fixators in place, he’d recover for certain.  However, there likely was nerve damage.  They’d told Bucky of that yesterday after the second operation, that the femoral nerve, which was next to the artery, had suffered injury as well.  Again, this was a seemingly minor concern that hadn’t mattered much when Steve had first been hurt.  The serum would have easily regenerated the damaged tissue in a couple of weeks.  Without that?  The doctors were once again reluctant to be firm about what it meant this early on, but it didn’t seem likely Steve would ever walk again without a serious limp.  The thigh muscle group wouldn’t function properly, and even with extensive therapy, he’d probably need a cane to assist him.

After the doctors had left last night, Bucky had cried.  It had been days and days of the same terrible story: the serum would have handled this or healed that or _restored_ function, but without it, Steve wasn’t going to get better.  And Bucky felt just a little bit like a bastard for being so fucking _angry._   He knew he should be grateful.  An unenhanced person would have naturally suffered all these long-term injuries without a thought for any other outcome (if he or she had survived the fall at all, which wouldn’t have been likely).  There would never have been a chance to heal something as serious as a broken femur or recover from a badly collapsed lung without long-term effects.  There would never have been hope that the scars would all disappear and Steve would simply _get back to normal._   But that hope had been there, and now it was gone, and Bucky wanted to scream.

Of course, Steve’s other injuries, as concerning as they were, paled in comparison to the traumatic brain injury.  In the hours after the devastating revelation that Steve couldn’t see, Bucky had been completely consumed by shock and grief.  He’d been utterly lost in it, detached and practically dissociated, as he’d somehow managed to confess his suspicions to Sam.  That had caused an eruption of panic, Sam desperately trying to get Steve to look at him now as Steve drifted in and out of consciousness before failing and then calling _everyone._   Bruce and Tony.  Natasha and Clint and Thor.  Every doctor they had on staff.  They’d conducted neurologic assessments and ordered immediate scans.  Still, despite all the attempts to prove otherwise, there was no denying the situation: Steve’s brain had been damaged badly enough that his optic nerve had been affected.

In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been such a serious shock.  Steve had smacked the back of his head into the concrete hard enough to break his skull and cause internal bleeding, and they’d known that.  The doctors had explained this to Bucky as well while Steve had been doped into unconsciousness after one of the multiple surgeries he’d had in the wake of the serum failing.  The rebound force from the fall had caused the anterior arteries in his brain to bleed.  That evening more than a week ago after the battle, they’d all just let that go, assuming the serum would deal with the hemorrhage and edema just as it had in the past before it could cause any serious problems.  They’d obviously been terribly wrong.  The increased pressure the bleeding had put on his optic nerve had cut off the blood flow to it, which had caused the nerve itself to begin to die.  By the time they’d realized the severity of what had happened, it was too late.  And there was nothing they could do.  They had tried to help, of course.  The second they’d confirmed the location of the bleed, they’d rushed Steve into surgery to contend with it.  They’d certainly stopped it from getting worse.

But the damage had already been done, and the damage was serious.  In the days afterward, as Steve had continued to drift in and out of awareness, the neurologists had struggled to get an accurate assessment of how bad the situation was.  Of course, given the fact that _everything_ they’d once taken for granted needed to be examined, there’d been worries of all sorts of other things: injury to his spine, further neurologic issues, and complications in other areas of his brain that controlled language and memory and so forth.  Thankfully, aside from the blindness, Steve seemed fairly cognizant when he was awake.  He was able to orient himself to his surroundings, able to speak fairly fluidly, and his motor functions and other nerves and reflexes seemed intact. 

It was another minor blessing and another thing Bucky knew he should be happier about.  Steve would live; that was for certain.  He had some serious, long-term troubles to deal with, though, and that seemed impossible to digest.  The extent of the impact on his life wasn’t entirely clear yet.  With him so out of it, it was difficult to tell what exactly he _could_ see.  Still, whatever it was, the blindness was likely not going to be reversible.  The neurologists had a long, fancy term for what had happened.  _Cranial artery dissection with subsequent cerebral infarction resulting in bilateral papilledema with secondary optic atrophy._   Bucky didn’t know what any of that meant.

 _Bullshit._   He knew _exactly_ what it meant.  He was trying to make himself not remember, trying to ignore it, trying not to think about the long hours he’d spent researching everything he could on it while Steve slept, trying not to get angry about the fact that Steve would be legally _blind_ and unable to see with clarity, that his acute and color vision were likely the most seriously impacted, that he might be able to see shadows and such, particularly along the periphery, and that seemed to be the case with the way his eyes roved and moved when he tried to look at Bucky, with the way he couldn’t seem to focus, with the way the doctors and the medical articles and journals described it, and their whole lives had been changed _just like that_ , and Bucky couldn’t fucking _handle this_ –

“Bucky?

Bucky tore himself from his thoughts.  His eyes had welled with fresh tears as he’d lost himself, and he realized now he’d been staring at Steve’s bruised, lax face.  The skin around his eyes was swollen and dark with illness, but otherwise he was gaunt and white.  They’d shaved his hair to perform the brain surgery, and the sutures were red, angry lines atop his scalp, scars to mark the damage inside.  His breathing sounded a bit off as it always did now.  A thick layer of stubble coated his jaw.  Bucky hadn’t shaved him since he’d gotten hurt.  He should have.  Steve always liked looking sharp, clean, and making sure of that was Bucky’s job, a little thing he could do to make things the way they should be, and he was failing in that, too.

“Bucky, talk to us.”

With a little, physical jerk, Bucky made himself focus.  He’d fucking drifted again.  God, he was tired.   “’m okay,” he mumbled, tearing his gaze from Steve.  Sam was fiddling with the O2 machine as Natasha got the mask situated on Steve’s face.  Thor pushed the stretcher they’d used to bring Steve here out of the way, squeezing his eyes shut after like he was in pain. 

Sam glanced over his shoulder.  “I’m staying with you tonight.”

Bucky couldn’t help but scowl.  “No, you don’t need to.”

“Yeah, I do,” Sam said firmly.  “You can’t handle this alone.  You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky declared.

“It was too soon to bring him here.”

Bucky couldn’t stand to hear that.  He sniffled, pushing closer to the bed anew and going about readjusting pillows again and tucking Steve in tighter and making sure again that the O2 mask was comfortable and that his IV lines weren’t tangled.  It was all needless; Sam and Natasha had already taken care of it.  But he had to _do_ something, like he had to justify that this was the right course.  “He needs to be home.”

Sam was staring at him, probably to argue further.  Sam had been butting heads with just about everyone over the last couple days.  He was taking this hard, very hard, and it was obvious he blamed himself for what had happened.  It was pretty horrifying to see calm, level-headed, easy-going Sam turn into this moody, teary, angry, frightened mess, but that was what was happening.  Bucky knew on some level that he should be more supportive; Christ, he owed Sam so much.  But he couldn’t muster it now, and Sam’s combativeness was draining.

Thankfully, Natasha stepped in.  “He’s fine here, Sam.  The staff’s just a couple minutes away.”

“Across the complex,” Sam said, clearly afraid of something – _anything_ – going wrong again.

“A couple minutes away,” Natasha said again.  “Plus there’s nothing more they can really do for him now.  And Friday’s watching over him constantly.  He’ll be fine here.”

Sam still didn’t look convinced.  He let his hand linger on Steve’s a moment where it was limp on the bed.  “I just…”  His face locked up in pain, and Bucky could see him bite the inside of his lower lip, probably to keep it still.

“And Sam’s right.  I don’t think you should be alone tonight,” Natasha added quietly, turning to Bucky.  Bucky met her gaze, and she seemed firm for the first time in days.  “It’s too hard on you to handle everything.  Between all of us, we can make sure someone who’s well-rested can be with him at all times.”

Maybe Bucky should have been insulted.  This was _his_ home, after all (well, his home in Tony’s building, furnished and maintained by Tony, but that was another issue entirely, one he didn’t want to think about right now).  This was his suite, his and Steve’s suite, and Steve was his husband, and it was his responsibility to see to Steve’s needs now.  Considering the life he’d once led as a young man in Brooklyn, handling Steve’s needs was something over which he was becoming fiercely (and maybe irrationally) protective.  Steve had always been _his_ , long before he’d been the others’ friend and brother and captain.  It had always been Bucky’s place to keep him safe.  Taking care of Steve when Steve was hurt and sick was _his_ territory.

But Bucky couldn’t bring himself to get angry.  It was such a minor grievance, compared to everything else that hurt.  “Okay,” he said softly.  “Yeah.  Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Then I shall take first watch,” Thor immediately offered.  He’d returned to stand at the foot of the California king.  He’d gotten control of himself, too, though there was a hint of wetness on his cheek that he hadn’t completely wiped away.  “That way you can all eat.”

Bucky grimaced at the prospect.  He hadn’t been away from Steve aside from a quick shower or two for days and days.  He’d eaten fast, tasteless meals at Steve’s bedside, slept in the recliner there (even though Tony had offered to bring in a cot), spent every moment with Steve in the event that Steve needed him.  Between his injuries and the morphine, Steve had been so out of it that he never came around long, and when he did, it was hard to figure out how much he really understood of what had happened.  The crushing realization that he couldn’t see was so consuming that the conversation never got much beyond that before he lost consciousness again.  Bucky was fairly certain Steve knew he’d been badly hurt, that he’d fallen in the battle and had nearly died, and he was sure Steve realized his vision was damaged (despite seeming so shocked by it every time he woke).

That was all Steve knew, though, and Steve couldn’t see who was with him.  If he woke up and found that Bucky wasn’t there, he could get agitated.  The thought of him afraid turned Bucky’s stomach.

So leaving him with Thor seemed like a bad idea, one Bucky wanted to reject outright.  However, he knew that wasn’t rational, and he wouldn’t be able to get away with it with Sam and Natasha there and Thor himself staring at Steve like nothing could get between him and what he’d decided would be his duty.  Bucky sighed unhappily.  “If he starts to come around–”

“I’ll immediately send for you,” Thor finished.  He gave them a firm nod, and that seemed to be it in terms of discussion.  He’d already pulled one of the plush lounge chairs from the seating area by the big bank of windows, and he was settling into it to start his vigil.

Bucky wasn’t quite ready to leave, though.  He could hardly blame Sam for being so paranoid about things going to hell the second he left the room when he felt just about the same.  And it wasn’t like this situation was going to resolve itself quickly (or ever, it sadly seemed).  He couldn’t handle this alone.  So, with a heavy sigh, he leaned down and pressed his lips to Steve’s forehead.  “I’ll be right back,” he promised in a whisper.  Steve didn’t answer, his even, slightly wheezy breaths hitching a moment before settling again.  Bucky let his hand linger on Steve’s cheek before sighing and moving away.

The three of them were silent as they walked from the suite and into the corridors that connected the rooms of the complex’s living areas.  There was never any interest in conversation anymore.  That had died a quick, miserable death since the attack in Manhattan.  There was no happy chatter, no discussions of Avengers business or training or SHIELD issues, no talk of upcoming events or plans for team functions or _anything._   There wasn’t even mention of the current situation unless there had to be.  No one ever talked now.  It was too hard and too painful.

This meant the common area was quiet when they got there.  The wide area, filled with its sleek orange, red, and gray furniture and modern décor, was empty save for Clint and Wanda.  The huge television was on, quietly playing one of the twenty-four hour news networks.  Clint was perched in one of the chairs, elbows on his thighs and hands folded together in front of his mouth.  He was watching.  Wanda, on the other hand, was turned away, wrapped up in one of the throws with her legs tucked under her.  The second she sensed them coming, she slipped down from her seat, standing with the blanket around her shoulders.  “Is he okay?” she asked, regarding the three of them with wide eyes.  “I sensed he was in pain before.”

“He’s sleeping,” Sam replied.  “He stirred a little when he got him into the room, but he went back down.  Thor’s staying with him.”

Wanda nodded, biting her lip and closing her eyes in obvious relief.  “I’ll bring Thor some dinner when it arrives.  It should be here soon.  No reason he should be hungry.”  That might have just been an excuse to go in and see Steve.  If it was, no one called her out on it.  She’d been so quiet and shaken since Steve had fallen.  More than anyone else on the team, he was a symbol to her of hope.  He was what it meant to be a good person, what she could be the more she found redemption for her own sins.  He was a big brother to her, and losing him…

 _We’ve already lost him.  Lost who he was._   Bucky looked away before he could cry again.

“Stark?” Sam asked quietly.

“He and Bruce said they were coming down,” Wanda answered.

Natasha slid her hands into the pockets of her jeans.  “Did they say anything about–”

“No.” Wanda’s pale face tightened in sorrow.  “Nothing yet.”

Thunder rumbled outside.  Bucky took a deep breath to get better control of himself, glancing out the windows in the common room to see the heavy rain streaking down the panes and making everything dark, distorted, and blurry.  The sun was almost down completely.  He drew a shivery breath and tried to find some solace.  _Another day of this nightmare behind us._  

That wasn’t it.

Neither was what Clint said.  “Someone’s going to have to make a public statement.”  He stood too, gingerly with his sharp eyes still on the news report.  It was what was always on the news now or seemed to be as Bucky had idly noticed in the periphery.  On the TV there was an older anchorman speaking with a few representatives from the White House, trying to generate a conversation about Captain America’s status with no information to work with.  They were just rehashing Tony’s press conference from a week ago and questioning why nothing further had been said by SHIELD or the Avengers.  The press seemed aware of the harried transport of Steve back to the complex; of course, they would be, given it had been from a very busy public hospital.  People talked.  But nothing more had been _said_ , not by anyone in the know and not in any official capacity.

It was clear people were worried and becoming more so as each day passed without either Steve appearing or new information being released.  Clint sighed.  “We shouldn’t let this go on.”

“Let SHIELD handle it,” Sam muttered bitterly.  He went over to the fridge and pulled out a can of soda.  Cracking it open made the soda spill all over him.  “Aw, fuck.  Goddamn it!”  He slammed the can down on the counter, and Wanda startled.  Sam hissed and reached for a towel.  “They’re the ones who said Steve was fine before we actually knew that.”

“He was fine when Tony made those statements,” Clint quietly replied.

Sam’s reply was harsh and predictable.  “He was _never_ fine.”  Roughly he wiped his splattered shirt.  “Maybe if we’d seen that instead of sticking our heads up our asses, we’d have had more time to do something about it instead of relying on a last-minute plan that we didn’t have time to think through.”

Bucky tensed.  This had been a huge, unspoken issue, the fucking one-ton elephant in the room that of course everyone refused to acknowledge.  At least, they weren’t acknowledging it around Bucky.  Bucky supposed they might have been tearing each other up when they were away from him and Steve.  He probably should feel grateful for that if that was the case.  He was trying really goddamn hard _not_ to think about their role in Steve’s situation, that it had been their decision to treat the serum as they had that had probably permanently damaged it.  There was enough pain and grief and _guilt_ right now without that added misery.

Thankfully, no one took what Sam said any further, which was convenient because the source of all the tension walked into the common room.  Tony immediately dropped his gaze when everyone turned to him.  He was perpetually stiff now, like every muscle in his body was twisted and contorted and taut.  In the days since the full impact of their serious misstep had become obvious, Tony had been fairly silent.  Where he normally was full of opinions (and a ton of other chatter), he was eerily reserved, hardly offering any thoughts at all.  He wasn’t defeated, per se, but his customary bravado was simply gone.  He walked with quiet steps, almost timid and ashamed.  This huge man who’d been larger than life as long as Bucky had known him, who was effectively Steve’s second in command and closest friend…  He was shaken, a shadow of who he’d been just a few days ago.

Although, to be honest, Bucky hadn’t seen him much.  As the team had struggled with the enormity of Steve’s condition, Tony had sequestered himself in the labs attached to the medical ward.  He and Bruce had been in there almost constantly, rarely leaving (to Bucky’s understanding; he hadn’t had the time or inclination to find out).  Everyone knew why, even if this was again something they weren’t talking about.  It was obvious.

Tony was trying to find a cure.

Bucky wasn’t even certain it had ever been an official decision.  He himself had sure as hell never asked them to do this.  It was just a logical outcome, that Tony and Bruce, undeniably two of the smartest men on the planet (and the two most directly responsible for what had happened, in some opinions), would be working on a way to reverse SHIELD’s bioweapon.  Bruce was an expert on Doctor Erskine’s work, and Tony was… well, a genius would be putting it mildly.  They had all the data from SHIELD on Project: Delilah and all the data from SSR on Project: Rebirth.  They had the weapons the aliens had used against the Avengers, so they could study the radiation signature in depth.  They, of course, had Steve’s blood now to test and study.  They had _all_ of that, plus the collective aid SHIELD’s top chemists, geneticists, and biologists, as well as the input of Vision (and therefore JARVIS) and Friday, the most advanced AIs in the world.  They had the bleeding edge of biomedical technology at their disposal.  If anyone could find a way to undo the damage crippling the serum, it’d be them.

So far, they had nothing.  Bucky didn’t even need to hear Tony speak to know that.  His tense, addled posture said everything.  His eyes were wild but exhausted, his hair a mess, his clothes rumpled.  He looked like he hadn’t showered in days, hadn’t slept in longer.  “Food’s not here yet?” he asked, glancing around warily like he was treading somewhere he had no right to be.

“No,” Wanda answered, darting her eyes to Sam to see if this was going to be okay.  Sam was scowling darkly at the kitchen counter.

Tony glanced at Bruce, who’d come with him.  Bruce, too, appeared rundown, unshaven and messy.  “I guess we can go back and work more then,” Tony said, and he turned to go.

“No,” Bruce said quickly, taking Tony’s arm and making him stop.  He looked like he desperately needed the break.  “A few minutes won’t matter, and we’re here.”

Tony visibly slumped.  Part of Bucky certainly felt for him.  The other part, though, was hurt and angry and so fucking terrified that he turned away too and stared out the window.  Thunder was grumbling again, louder and strong enough to rattle the panes.  Behind him, Tony heaved a sigh, breaking what was becoming a painful silence, and went over to sit at the table (sit was a generous term.  Mostly he just collapsed).

Bruce went to the refrigerator and came over with two cans of soda.  He set one in front of Tony before opening the other for himself.  “We spoke with King T’Challa,” he announced to the quiet.  Bucky held his breath, turning back to them.  “He offered to come immediately, but he said what he can bring with him is limited.  The Wakandan Council won’t permit taking the level of technology required to handle a problem this complex out of Wakanda.”

“Not even for Captain America?” Clint said glumly.

Bruce frowned.  “He wasn’t pleased with that and said he’d go above their heads if he had to, but…  Well, he’s not sure how feasible it would be, at any rate.  He suggested bringing Steve to him.  Princess Shuri might have better luck with everything she needs and is familiar with right at her disposal.”

Tony grunted.  Bucky couldn’t read if that was hopeful or disparaging or irritated or what.  Bruce glanced at his friend, and it was more than obvious the long hours laboring over the issue had worn them both.  Bucky could only imagine what working with Tony was probably like right now.  Stark could be difficult at the best of times.  Now, with worry and guilt dominating him, driving him, feeding obsessions and doubts, it was probably unbearable.  Not to mention the weight on their shoulders.  The expectations and hopes.

“Shuri is working on the problem already at least.  I sent her all the data.  And T’Challa’s offer to come now stands,” Bruce said, sipping his soda.  “If we want him to.”

Sam practically radiated pain.  “Another person to sit at Steve’s bedside and offer up useless condolences.”  Bruce gave him a harsh look, and he bowed his head, ashamed.  “Sorry.  I know he’s trying to help.”

“We’re all trying to help,” Bruce reminded.  “It’s going to take some time.  Steve’s not in any serious danger anymore.  His condition is stable, so there’s no reason to rush through anything.”

To that Sam nodded and gathered his composure a bit.  Softly Wanda sighed, glancing between the scientists.  “If we have to bring Steve there, when can we do that?”

That was perhaps an unintentional jab at Tony.  An implication that the work Tony was doing to solve the problem wasn’t enough.  Bruce glanced at his friend, but Tony was slumped, eyes down and staring emptily at the can of soda in his hand.  He looked lost and ready to cry.  Bruce sighed.  “At least a couple of weeks.  We need to get him up and moving around more first.  The physical therapists will start tomorrow morning.”

Bucky grimaced and folded his arms over his chest guardedly.  He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of a bunch of strangers coming into their private lives.  Right now, with everything broken and ruined, he wanted to close ranks, to hide in that bedroom with Steve and have the time to process what had happened.  He wanted the chance to figure it out, to accept things, to cry and do whatever else they needed to.  He wasn’t fucking sure _what_ they needed to do, but he didn’t want to feel pressure to move on when this was all so new and terrifying.

There wasn’t a choice.  If they couldn’t figure out how to fix the serum, they had to deal with things as they were.  Plus, if developing a cure took some time, Steve couldn’t spend it all in bed, half conscious and drugged out of his mind on morphine.  He had to get up, move around, recover and _adapt._

They all did.

“Boss,” Friday called softly, interrupting another tense beat of silence, “the pizza’s just outside.”

Tony sniffled and set his can upon a coaster on the table.  Then he was levering himself wearily up and out of the chair and shuffling back to the stairs to head down.  Natasha had the good sense to wait until he was gone before interrogating Bruce.  “You don’t have _anything_?”

Bruce’s frown deepened.  “Not yet,” he confessed in a soft, tense voice.  Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and dug his metal fingers into his flesh and blood arm hard enough to hurt.  “The genetic markers for the serum that I’ve isolated before are still present in Steve’s DNA, I can tell you that with certainty.  Granted, the genes we know are probably only a small subset of the changes the serum caused during Project: Rebirth.  We’ve never achieved a solid understanding of exactly what the serum does or how it works.”

“But the serum’s not gone,” Clint surmised, trying not to sound hopeful.

“No,” Bruce said with a firm shake of his head.  “No, no.  It’s definitely there.”  He looked hesitant for a second, glancing at Bucky.  Bucky couldn’t make himself meet his gaze.  “But I can also say with certainty that at least one of the genes has undergone a significant mutation.  I was wrong before, when I thought the damage the radiation from the alien rifle caused was limited to the serum molecules in Steve’s body rather than his DNA.  There are a couple of other genes linked to the serum that don’t look right from the analyses we’ve done, and that had to be caused by the radiation.  It’s probably contributing to the problem now.”

He stopped, like that was all he wanted to explain, but everyone was staring expectantly at him.  So he sighed again, lifting his hands and gesticulating as he explained.  “The genes for the serum, in addition to doing a host of other things, cause the production of proteins associated with serum molecules.  Those serum molecules constantly impact every major organ system in Steve’s body.  The molecules also degrade over time and are flushed out once they’re no longer active, hence why shutting the serum down when Steve was dying stopped the damage it was doing.  The biomolecular mechanics of the serum’s self-regulatory systems are really complex, but suffice it to say that during the metabolic process by which the serum is broken down, a by-product of the serum degrading binds to a particular receptor unique to Steve’s cells.  That action tells the cells to produce more serum.”

“Okay,” Clint said with a wince, like that was too much too fast.  He glanced at Wanda, but she was staring lifelessly at Tony as though his pain was too much of a distraction.  “So what happened then?”

Bruce shook his head.  “In simple terms, SHIELD’s bioagent is a competitive antagonist.”

“English,” Sam ordered wearily.

Bruce glared.  Bucky could appreciate why.  They were way beyond _anything_ being simple.  “The bioagent binds to those receptors instead, thus preventing the serum’s own metabolite from signaling Steve’s cells to produce more.  Hence the serum is effectively shut down while the bioagent is in place.  The antidote is supposed to render the agent inert, causing it to release the receptor and allow serum production to begin again.”

“But it’s not,” Natasha said.

“No, it’s not.  We don’t know why exactly, but our working theory at the moment is mutations in the genes for the serum have caused alterations to those receptors somehow, and those alterations are preventing the bioagent from releasing the receptor.  That would shut down the entire process.  It’s not what we did specifically that’s caused the serum to fail, but we contributed to it.”

“So how do we fix it?” Wanda asked, her eyes focusing as she turned to Bruce.

Bruce shook his head.  “I don’t know.  It’s not as simple as just fixing that issue, although that’s a major problem, don’t get me wrong.  But shutting down the serum didn’t repair the damage the radiation did in the first place.  Whatever caused the serum to go haywire is likely still there.  The radiation interacted with the serum’s genes and turned them on Steve.  For all intents and purposes, there’s poison inside his body, and we’re lucky we managed to keep it contained.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t in danger,” Sam said sharply.

“He’s not,” Bruce replied just as tensely.  “Not right now.  Maybe not ever if we can’t restore the serum’s functionality.”  Sam shook his head, scowling anew.  “Look, it’s an extremely complicated situation.  All we know right now is even if we can figure out how to flip the switch back on, we still haven’t solved the fundamental issue.”

“So it might be…”  Wanda’s eyes glazed with grief.  “It might be better not to fix it all.”

Bruce was still for an interminable moment.  Then he nodded.

“That’s fucking fantastic,” Sam seethed.  “Steve’s blind, and he stays blind.”

Bucky jerked like he’d been hit.  God, hearing someone say it like that…  All this time, no one had, not really.  It was devastating to hear it.  _Steve’s blind._   Bucky dug his fingers in harder and harder and tried not to scream.

“We are fixing it.”  Tony’s harsh words seemed unduly loud.  He was back, carrying a few boxes of pizza that he dropped roughly to the table.  Then he glared at the group, at Bruce especially.  “We are not giving up.  We are figuring this out.  There’s an answer, and we’ll find it.”

Bruce shook his head.  “Tony–”

“We will find it!” he snapped.  “We’ve been at this, what, four or five days?  We haven’t even gotten opinions back from Cho or Wakanda yet!  We’ve just _started_ , and you want to throw in the towel?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Tony snarled, ripping open a pizza box and throwing a couple slices on a plate.  “What are you saying then?  What would you prefer to call all that defeatist, pessimistic _bullshit_ you just spewed?”  Bruce’s eyes narrowed, and a flicker of green tinted them.  Tony glared right back, totally undaunted and uncaring, before heading to the other end of the table and snatching his opened can of soda.  “I’m going back to work.”  He stalked away.

Wanda took a step forward like she meant to follow him.  “Let him go,” Bruce quietly ordered, barely looking up at her from where he was staring angrily at the pizza.  He shook his head, more to himself.  “Goddamn it.”

It was so strange to hear Bruce swear.  Bucky hardly knew him, but he knew that that wasn’t who he was.  Concern shone in Wanda’s eyes.  “We don’t do Steve any good by fighting one another,” she said.  There was no accusation in her tone, simply worry and grief.  Alarm.  “We have to support each other.  This is no one’s fault.”

No one jumped in to agree with her, which made the emptiness damning.  Bruce exhaled slowly, visibly trying to regain his composure.  “Have you guys found anything?” he asked.

That was in reference to the search Clint and Natasha were conducting for the individuals at SHIELD responsible for Project: Delilah.  Ever since it became obvious that the antidote wasn’t working, the two of them had done what they could do to help, namely trying to find out as much information as possible pertaining to this secret bioweapon.  Fury was assisting them, and they were tearing apart this newly rebuilt SHIELD, digging deep into its not-so-clean past to find answers.  “Not much,” Clint admitted after sharing a look with Natasha.  Natasha herself seemed bent and weary.  “The World Security Council didn’t allow Fury to have access to Delilah while they were developing it.  It’s probably a miracle he was able to get it away from SHIELD when it collapsed.  Because they kept him on the outs, though, we have next-to-no records of this program ever existing, much less information about it.  From what little we do know, we’re pretty sure that HYDRA wasn’t involved at least.”

“What a fucking relief,” Sam muttered bitterly.

“We’re also pretty sure the lead researcher on the project died when HYDRA took the Sandbox.  He had a few other techs and grunts working under him.”  Clint shook his head.  “The guy who was killed was the one who knew things, though.  It doesn’t seem like these other dudes were even aware of what, specifically, they were working on.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bruce said.  “Any new information is more than we have right now.”

“But we haven’t been able to locate them yet,” Natasha quietly added.

Bruce sighed.  He grabbed a plate. “Then keep looking.”

“Even if you don’t think the bioweapon’s the problem?” Sam asked.

“It’s _a_ problem, maybe not _the_ problem.  I don’t want to leave anything to chance, which means we need all the data we can get, even if it doesn’t turn out to be useful.  If there are answers, we have to find them.”  That wasn’t quite as strongly said as Tony’s hurt, angry declarations from moments before, but it was still something.  It was maybe as optimistic, perhaps, as Bruce could be right now.  Bucky didn’t want to link that to realism or pragmatism.  That hurt too much.  “Plus…  Well, it’d be good to know if they still have access to samples of Steve’s blood.”

That was definitely a sore spot.  Sam immediately glowered.  “You mean the blood SHIELD stole.”

Why the hell Sam was baiting Bruce wasn’t obvious.  Bruce didn’t rise to it, anyway.  “Yes.  We have a bit of a problem in that we don’t really have samples of Steve’s blood to work with.”

“How can that be?” Wanda asked.

“We need uncontaminated samples.”  Bruce shook his head.  “We never banked his blood here.  SHIELD policy.  Unfortunately that means we don’t have the ability to examine the serum as it was.”  No one said anything to that.  What was there to say?  Bucky winced, this foreboding ache settling into his chest. 

After what felt like forever, Bruce opened the pizza box, staring morosely at the food.  Then he turned to them.  “Now let’s eat before it gets cold.”

Reluctantly, the others began to shuffle closer.  Bucky never got the chance.  “Sergeant Barnes,” Friday called.  “Captain Rogers has awoken and is distressed.  He is calling for you.”

Bucky didn’t waste a second.  He raced from the room, sprinting back down the corridors, and burst back into their suite.  It took all of a moment for him to charge through the living areas and reach the bedroom.

Thor was sitting on the bed, his hands on Steve’s flailing arms, clearly trying to subdue and comfort him.  Bucky rushed across the master bedroom, getting right up to the bed.  “He suddenly regained consciousness,” Thor breathlessly explained.  “I cannot calm him.”

Steve wasn’t really struggling per se.  He was too weak for that, and even when he’d had the serum enhancing his muscles, he could never have bested Thor in a contest of strength.  Bucky had noticed already before but hadn’t let himself truly _see_ how Steve’s muscles weren’t what they were a few days ago.  They were still sizeable, his biceps visible under the loose t-shirt he was wearing as he gripped Thor, but they weren’t as big and pronounced as they had been.  They weren’t as hard and powerful.  They were becoming… _normal._   Human.

It was upsetting as hell, and so was the garbled sob Steve gave.  That had Bucky sitting at Steve’s other side.  Thor immediately let him go, standing and backing off with a tense frown of grief.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I should not have held him.  I was frightened he’d hurt himself.”

“It’s alright,” Bucky said.  He didn’t make it clear if that was meant for Thor or Steve himself.  “It’s alright.”

“Buck?” Steve gasped.  His eyes were open, roaming like they always did now.  His head shifted listlessly on the pillow.  The neurologist had suggested that it was likely Steve could see more on his periphery, that acute, central and color vision were probably the most seriously impacted given the nature of the damage.  That explained why he kept trying to side-eye Bucky (and everything else).  Steve reached for him.  “Buck!”

Bucky grabbed his shaking hand and pulled it close, pressing it to his cheek so that Steve could feel him.  “Right here,” he softly promised.  “Easy, love.  I’m right here.”

Instantly Steve relaxed.  His eyes roved more but with less fear behind them.  “I can’t see you,” he said after catching his breath.  The mask over his mouth and nose fogged.  “I still can’t see you.”

This was a source of worry for the neurologists overseeing Steve’s care and the team alike, the fact that Steve seemed not to be able to process the problems he had with his vision.  The doctors were concerned it was a sign of additional brain damage, maybe issues with his memory or the like, but Bucky believed it was simply that Steve was overwhelmed, naturally very confused, and expecting something that couldn’t happen now.   He didn’t know the whole truth.  The fact that Steve had to be told about his situation – that the serum wasn’t _healing_ him – had been drifting about Bucky’s thoughts, slithering back there like a snake.  Every time it had hissed its way closer to the surface, he’d been able to ignore it.  He wrote it off as just one worry among a thousand.

Now, with Steve trembling beneath him, with those beautiful blue eyes all bloodshot and dull and empty…  Bucky sighed.  “I know,” he said.

Steve reached with his other hand.  It trembled too, fingers shivering, searching fearfully.  Bucky swallowed down the agony tightening up his throat and leaned forward, putting his other cheek against Steve’s hand.  He had to do that, because Steve couldn’t see his face.  Steve couldn’t find him to touch him.  Bucky bit his lower lip hard to keep it from trembling and closed his own eyes.  He couldn’t stand to see Steve like this anymore.

“Bucky,” Steve murmured.  He swept his thumbs along Bucky’s face, over his cheekbones and down the scruff of the beard he hadn’t had the care to shave and along his jaw.  His thumb timidly slipped across Bucky’s mouth.  Steve’s own bruised lips pulled into a trembling frown.  “Everythin’s all…  All dark and blurry.  Everythin’.”

“I know,” Bucky whispered.

“Bucky?”

“I’m here,” Bucky promised.  “How are you feeling?”

Steve seemed to consider that a moment, eyes roving anew.  It was disturbing to watch.  “Alright,” he finally said on a long, weary breath.  “Weird.  Everythin’s weird.”

Bucky supposed that made sense.  Who knew what it would feel like to be in a body that was suddenly _human_ again?  Suddenly mortal again, for all intents and purposes?  “Any pain?” he asked, reaching down to brush a hand over Steve’s forehead.  He wiped away a few wayward tears he didn’t think Steve had noticed.

Steve shook his head, but he winced while he did.  Thor’s response was immediate.  “I’ll speak to Banner about increasing the medicine.”

“No,” Bucky said quietly.  “No, just…  Just wait.”  Thor didn’t look pleased, but it was too soon for another dose.  Plus Bucky knew Steve well enough to be fairly sure he wasn’t in serious pain.  He’d spent the better part of his life (well, his life as who he really was, not the Winter Soldier) with Steve, so he knew how Steve looked and acted when he was hurting badly and struggling to hide it.  Of course, this Steve before him, the same but yet so unfamiliar and unrecognizable, he perhaps didn’t know all that well.  Nothing felt right or quite real, and nothing had for days, and he was just reeling with it.

_I have to tell him._

“Can you give us a minute?” Bucky said, glancing at Thor.  Thor was hesitant, which he never would have been days ago.  He wasn’t suspicious of course, but wary like they all were, worried that turning away from this situation – from Steve – even for a moment would result in losing Steve for good.  “Please.”

Thor lingered just a bit longer.  Then he nodded and left, closing the bedroom door softly behind him.  Bucky tracked him on his way out, and when he did he spotted Steve’s shield where it had been put on floor against the wall.  The vibranium disc was bright in the dim light.  The paint had been scraped away leaving the silver beneath.  The shield had absorbed some of the discharge from the alien gun, and Tony had very carefully decontaminated it, removing the coloring to ensure no traces of the radiation remained.  Apparently the energy had been strong enough to cause unusual fluctuations in the vibranium molecules themselves, which was pretty damn disturbing.  Those had resolved themselves, but the strength of the energy that had caused all this misery couldn’t be doubted.  The alien guns seemed to be a weapon _made_ to turn Captain America’s defenses against him, which didn’t seem possible.  Bucky couldn’t make himself cast it aside, though.  Either they’d been out to get Steve or fate had.  Both options were upsetting as hell.

At any rate, the shield was there, cleaned and stripped of its iconic paint.  It looked different, too, naked and bare and not quite right.  Bucky turned away, fighting to keep control of his composure.  Somehow seeing that damned thing had his eyes leaking and his heart shriveling.  “Buck,” Steve whispered.  There was no way Steve hadn’t noticed that, considering Bucky’s tears were slipping down over his grasping hands.  Steve’s sightless eyes roamed again, his forehead crinkling in confusion.  “’m okay.  Gonna be fine.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, trying to stay calm.  He reached up and took Steve’s hands from his face.  Then he kissed each knuckle carefully, taking time to gather himself.  There was no sense in lying.  “You’re not…”  He didn’t want to say Steve wasn’t okay.  That wasn’t true.  _It’s not true._   He bit his lower lip until he tasted blood, looking down.  “There’s a problem with the serum.”

Steve didn’t respond for a moment.  Bucky knew he was still awake, breathing in deeper breaths though it was clear that was a bit of a struggle for him.  As hazy and confused as he was, it didn’t take him long at all to put things together.  “That’s why I’m not…  Why I still can’t see.”

Bucky nodded.  Steve’s grip on his hands got tighter.  Just a week ago, Bucky would have really felt that, would have known just how hard Steve was squeezing him.  Now it barely felt like anything.  “Yeah,” he admitted.  “Yeah, that’s why.”

It was quiet a moment.  The soft sound of the thunder and the rain was deafening.  Steve blinked and blinked.  Bucky could see the fear begin to settle in his eyes.  “How…  How bad is it?” he finally asked.

Once more Bucky contemplated lying or at the very least minimizing the truth.  This was so much to take in, and Steve was just barely recovered enough to begin to do so.  He was fairly calm now, had been for the most part, and Bucky didn’t want to threaten that.  He certainly didn’t want to panic Steve or frighten him or hurt him further.

But he couldn’t lie, either.  He couldn’t disrespect the man he loved like that, the man who’d moved heaven and earth to save him.  The one who’d stood by him through the worst of his recovery, never once shying from the awful truth just because it was the easier or less painful route.  Steve deserved his strength now.  So again he summoned what he could and forced himself to be steady.  “Do you remember right before you fell?  You got hit with a blast from one of those rifles.  The aliens’ weapons.”

Steve’s face went laxer as he thought.  “Yeah,” he whispered.  His breath puffed on the mask again, and he winced, shifted weakly against Bucky’s thigh like the memories distressed him.  Why wouldn’t they?  “Yeah, I remember.”

Bucky nodded again.  “You remember that the energy in the weapons was killing people.  Vaporizing them.  But when it hit you…  Well, it did something else.”  That gave Bucky pause a moment.  It wasn’t the first time he’d thought this, too.  It was the same fact that he tried to tell himself to ease his anger.  If it hadn’t been for the serum doing what it had, Steve would have been vaporized, too.  As terrible as everything was, this was maybe the _best_ outcome there could have been.

 _No.  The best outcome would have been me picking off those bastards long before they cornered him up there._   He swallowed his guilt and went on.  “The radiation… _interacted_ with the serum, I guess.  Caused it to mutate.”

“Mutate?” Steve whispered.

Bucky kept nodding, like Steve could fucking _see_ that.  He felt so low.  “It damaged the serum, and you were dying because of it.  It happened so fast, and there was no time, and we – we had to stop it.  We had to.  So we did.  But what we did…  We thought if we shut the serum down, it’d fix everything, and you’d be okay.  And you are okay, love.  You are.”  He lifted Steve’s hands where they were tightly woven together with his own and kissed his fingers again.  “But after we turned the serum off, we couldn’t get it back on.  We _can’t_ get it back on, Steve.  I swear to you we’re trying.”

The emotions working their way across Steve’s face were painful to see.  Confusion.  Fear.  Panic.  Steve licked his lips.  “Am I…”  He stopped, his voice twisting and failing him.  Bucky watched the terror settle into him, hating himself so very much for that.  “Am I gonna… go back to – to the way I…”

“No,” Bucky said with a little gasp.  He pulled Steve’s hands even closer, leaning down.  “No, sweetheart.  You’re not gonna be small again.  No, no.”  Steve sagged just a bit in very obvious relief.  His eyes closed, and he drew in a deeper breath.  Bucky could hardly stand watching him.  Life couldn’t be this cruel.  It just couldn’t be so fucking terrible to hurt them like this.  After everything they’d been through, losing each other, Bucky losing _himself,_ the long years of their lives stolen…  And after they’d finally tasted happiness.  After they’d finally found everything they’d both wanted for so long.  Peace and happiness and contentment and completion with each other.  Life couldn’t be so vicious as to take that all away.

But it had.  _It was._

The words came unbidden.  Bucky’s voice was so quiet, barely more than a murmur, but he knew Steve could hear him.  “But the injuries you have from the fall…  They’re not healing like they should.  The serum can’t heal them.”  Steve just stared at him.  Bucky couldn’t breathe.  “They’re not going to heal, Steve, at least not like they did before.”

To that Steve said nothing.  His empty eyes stared at Bucky, stared but didn’t see.  It was unnerving, and it didn’t matter one bit since Steve didn’t know he was looking back, but Bucky did anyway.  He stared and waited for Steve to speak.  When he finally did, it was in a small, thin voice.  “I…  I don’t…”  He didn’t seem capable of more than that, capable of saying the truth on his own.  “I don’t understand.”

“The injuries you have now won’t get better, at least not completely.”  Though it was a struggle, Bucky kept his voice soft and even.  “The way you are now…  That’s the way you’ll stay.”

That seemed to hang in the still air a moment.  Steve’s eyes were flicking about frantically a moment, like he was experiencing anew the breadth of the damage done to him.  Then they stopped, settled, staring emptily not quite at Bucky.  At the space where he likely thought Bucky was.  Bucky stared back at him, watching the venom of the truth slowly poison him.  Steve’s lips started to tremble beneath the oxygen mask.  Bucky could feel his body quiver.  He reached over and pulled the mask aside.  “It’s alright.”

“I won’t…”  Steve choked on his words.  “I won’t see again?”

Bucky leaned over him more, careful to keep his weight off Steve’s tender chest and abdomen.  He needed to be close, though, and he needed Steve to know that, to feel that.  He brushed a hand over Steve’s forehead, stroking carefully.  “The blow you took to the back of your head…  It caused a traumatic brain injury.  Your brain bled, and the doctors – everyone…  We all thought the serum was taking care of it, but it wasn’t, and the bleeding damaged your optic nerve.  Nerves don’t…  They don’t regenerate, not without the serum.  So there’s nothing they can do.”

Waiting for that to sink in was torturous.  Steve’s eyes slowly closed.  Tears leaked from the corners of them to streak down his temples.  “What about my leg?”

Bucky swallowed his pain and went ahead.  “There’s nerve damage there, too.”

“Will I walk again?”

Bucky brushed Steve’s tears away.  “Yeah, sweetheart.  Yeah, of course.  With some help and therapy.”  He didn’t want to say anything about the possibility of him needing a cane.  He wouldn’t say anything about Steve’s damaged lung hindering him.  None of that was anything that had to be dealt with right now.  “You’ll walk just fine.”

Steve gave a soft sob and a wry smile.  “Just won’t be able to see where I’m goin’.”  Tears flooded his eyes.

Bucky’s heart broke.  “Oh, Stevie…  Sweetheart.”  Steve gasped, shaking harder now, and grabbed at Bucky’s t-shirt.  He squeezed his eyes shut, and pain had him squirming, truly struggling, fighting to cling to Bucky like he needed the anchor.  He probably did.  Yet again Bucky could hardly stand to watch it.  “No one’s giving up,” he promised.  “Steve.  Steve, love, listen to me.”  He let go of Steve’s hands completely and cupped his jaw.  “ _No one_ is giving up.  You understand?  Tony and Bruce are working on it.  Fury’s got all of SHIELD working on it.  Plus Doctor Cho’s helping.  And T’Challa.  We’ve got all the brightest minds in the world trying to figure it out.  They’ll find an answer.  I–”  Bucky cut himself off.  He couldn’t say what he wanted to.  He couldn’t promise that this was going to work out.  He couldn’t give Steve hope only to have it later taken away.  Breathing deeply, he took a second to get control of himself again.  “It’s going to be okay.  You’re okay, and that’s all that matters.”

Steve shuddered, quaked, and for a few long, horrible moments, it seemed like he was falling apart.  Breaking completely.  He was wheezing loudly, more tears spilling from eyes clenched shut, face red and taut with an agonized grimace.  His anguish was rising like a tidal wave.  Of course it would be.  Given the enormity of what Steve had lost, how could he not be suffering now?  He was teetering on the edge of complete despair, rightfully so.  Bucky watched and waited for him to fall.  He’d catch him.

But Steve didn’t fall.  He didn’t let go of the emotions clearly building inside him.  No, he breathed through it, raggedly sucking air in through his nose and out through his mouth, over and over and _over_ again in a desperate attempt to hang on.  He went rigid, fingers so tight in Bucky’s shirt that Bucky did fear for a moment he’d rip it.  Bucky could see him struggling, could feel him fighting to rise above it, to push it all down, to get past it.  It was a tremendous effort.  This should have been beyond any capacity to overcome so simply.  It wasn’t, though.  Steve breathed and shook with the effort and wavered, but he never went down. 

A few minutes later, he was inhaling and exhaling more easily, more deeply even though it clearly pained him to do so.  He relaxed in fits and spurts, hands unclenching, body going loose against the mattress.  It was remarkable and frightening all at once and so very _Steve._   “’m okay,” he eventually declared with words that shook and slurred.  “’m okay.”

Bucky smiled sadly.  “Sure, you are.”

Steve kept his eyes closed.  He licked his lips, trying to wet them, lost for a bit.  Then he reached for Bucky again, hands tremoring but more directed.  He found Bucky’s face easily enough this time because they were so close.  “You okay?”

“Of course I am,” Bucky said.  He kissed Steve’s palm where it pressed close to his lips.  “Of course I am.”

Steve went even more lax against the bed.  Bucky moved, toeing off his shoes before climbing in beside him.  He was careful to lay on the side opposite Steve’s bad leg and also careful not to put any physical pressure on him or to tangle up his IV lines.  He laid his head on Steve’s pillow, curling around his hip, burying his head into Steve’s shoulder and lightly laying an arm across him.  All these long days since the battle, where Steve had been confined to narrow hospital beds and gurneys, where Bucky had been barred being close to him…  All Bucky had wanted was this.  And it felt so good, to lay at Steve’s side, to feel Steve warm and _real_ against him.

Steve was really there.  Steve was _alive._

“I’m okay, Buck,” Steve kept whispering.  He was gazing upward, eyelids cracked to slits.  Quiet tears yet escaped, despite his efforts to be so strong and steady.  Bucky leaned over to kiss them away.  “I’ll be okay.”

“I love you,” Bucky said.  “I was so scared.  So scared!”

“’m sorry,” Steve whispered, and there was nothing but genuine grief and regret in his soft tone.  “I’m sorry, Buck.”

“I’m sorry, too.”  Bucky had no idea what he was apologizing for.  No matter how terribly he felt and how many times he replayed the horrible scene in his head and wished he’d moved faster or shot sooner or been closer, none of this was his fault.  His head knew that, even if his heart didn’t.  It wasn’t Steve’s fault, either.  It couldn’t be.  This was a hellish accident, the worst imaginable, and there was nothing anyone could have done.

But he had to apologize.  He had to.  And he did, over and over again in a desperate chant, sobbing softly as he kissed Steve’s cheek and his jaw and finally his mouth.  The kiss tasted like tears, though whether they were Bucky’s or Steve’s, Bucky couldn’t say.  Steve’s lips pressed back to his before parting, and Bucky deepened the kiss, sweeping his thumb along Steve’s jaw.  They lingered like that, kissing and feeling and letting the moment go on.  Bucky finally pulled back only to ache with even that tiny bit of distance between them, so he kissed Steve’s mouth again before pulling the blankets up around them both and settling.

It took a while, but finally Bucky closed his eyes and rested his head on Steve’s shoulder.  This felt safe and familiar.  It felt like one of a million times before this.  Bucky could imagine it, the two of them lazing in bed after a long day, happy and content and comfortable.  In the 1930s and 40s.  Months ago, weeks ago.  Days ago.  And he could almost see Steve as he was before this, golden and beautiful, with his brilliant blue eyes so bright and powerful.  He could hold onto that in this world where everything was radically different and so wrong.

“I’m okay, Bucky,” Steve whispered again.  He wheezed more shallowly now, staring blankly overhead.  His eyes were roaming almost frantically, like he was trying to see.  Like if he tried hard enough, he could fix this.  He could simply get better.  He could just get up again like he always had before.  His lips quivered, but he still didn’t cry.  He didn’t let go.  He didn’t give up. “I’m okay.”

That was the same at least.  Steve being strong for them both.

It was quiet after that, silent aside from the thunder and the rain and Steve’s ragged rasping.  They didn’t say anything else.  There was nothing to say.  There was a long road ahead of them.  They both knew that.  These were only the first steps on the difficult path between here and where all these hopes could be true, where Steve could be okay again.  There were so many questions, so many unknowns, so much to fear.

Right now, though, Bucky kept his eyes closed and listened to Steve breathe.


	7. Chapter 7

As promised, Sam stayed the night.  It turned out to be a good thing that he did.  More than once, Bucky encountered a situation that was hard to handle by himself.  Steve had been off a catheter since the surgery to further reinforce his leg, and Bruce came before they’d retired for the night to remove the IV.  With a kind smile, he’d declared Steve a “free man” and advised him to move around as much as he felt capable of doing.  The doctors and nurses had also wanted him up and walking.  Of course, all this meant getting Steve to the bathroom when he needed to use it, which wouldn’t have been easy with his sore chest and messed up leg to begin with.  With Steve unable to see, it was even more complicated and upsetting.

Thankfully Sam was quick to help.  He’d camped out in one of the chairs in the seating area with a couple spare pillows and a blanket.  It was silly, because their suite had a guest room, but Bucky didn’t complain.  He wasn’t sure Sam ever did more than doze.  He knew for sure he never did, lying beside Steve in bed as his husband fitfully slept.  The second Steve did so much as stir, the both of them were awake and aware and watching.  Truth be told, Bucky didn’t strictly need Sam’s help to take care of Steve, not even to get him up to the bathroom.  He could have carried Steve if he’d had to.  Still, as the long hours stretched onward, Bucky was grateful for the extra set of hands, for the steady support, for Sam’s stalwart presence.

When morning came, the sun broke through the rainclouds.  The light chased away the heavy shadows, and Bucky greeted it with bleary eyes.  Steve had finally settled down a few hours before when Bruce had come for his scheduled dose of painkillers, the medication’s soporific effects easing him to a deeper slumber, so Bucky had stolen some sleep himself.  Now he was watching from Steve’s side, listening to his breathing behind the oxygen mask, wearily running through a checklist in his head that he’d developed days ago.  Steve’s breathing.  Steve’s pulse.  Steve’s color and temperature.  Steve’s bandages.  Steve’s level of pain.  It was all acceptable, so Bucky rested more and watched the dawn and Sam where he was snoring softly from his chair.

It was still early when Thor and Clint came to relieve them.  Bucky refused; he was fatigued to his bones, but he had been like that for days.  He could keep going.  Sam, on the other hand, barely came to when they arrived, and that was evidence enough that he was done.  They sent him on his way, but not before he gave Bucky a weak hug and a few soft words of solace.  Bucky tensed up.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want the contact so much, but he felt so worn thin, so fucking raw, that nothing felt good.

Not even the shower Clint told him to take while he and Thor went about tidying up from the long night and getting breakfast ordered.  Leaving Steve even as he slept peacefully for the first time in hours seemed wrong, but the others were utterly adamant.  Yet again Bucky had to remind himself that this was going to be a long haul.  He couldn’t do it all alone, and he couldn’t fall on his sword every time someone suggested he take a break.  The shower was necessary and refreshing enough.  So was brushing the taste of swill from his teeth.  So was the fresh pair of jeans and thermal shirt.  He stood in the mirror appraising himself and realized the shirt he’d plucked from their closet was Steve’s, not his.  It was a little too small on him, and it smelled like Steve somehow even though they mixed their laundry together.  That made his eyes burn with new tears, and it was all he could do not to smash the mirror to pieces.

Breakfast was there when he got back out.  Thor sat him down at the seating area and placed a tray in front of him before lifting the covers off the plates.  That revealed a veritable feast: pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast, and fruit.  “Eat,” the demigod instructed as he poured Bucky some coffee.

Bucky did.  As usual, nothing tasted like anything.  Like a robot in need of what amounted only to energy, he consumed it all.  By then Steve was starting to come around again.  Bucky went right to him, not wanting to risk a second of Steve not being able to know he was close.  He climbed back into the bed, soothing Steve until he was awake and calm.  This time, the enormity of the changes to his body seemed to stick, and he didn’t ask again about his lack of sight or his injuries.  That was both a relief and crushingly painful.

Together, Thor and Bucky got Steve up and out of bed and back to the bathroom while Clint gathered him some fresh sweats and boxers.  Thor ran the bath while Bucky helped Steve with his needs.  He had to do everything.  He brushed Steve’s teeth and helped him use the toilet and undressed him.  He still didn’t bother with shaving him.  The whole thing had been upsetting for days, how dependent Steve was, but Steve had been too out of it and basically complacent to say anything or even really notice.  Now it felt even worse, really uncomfortable, since neither of them was talking at all.  That disquiet was made even worse with the fact that this was their bathroom and their home, and the harsh juxtaposition of that familiarity against how wildly different everything was just hurt fiercely.  Steve was silent, shivering, looking around and squinting and searching.  Whenever Bucky’s hands left him even for a second, he’d get agitated, frightened, and call out.  For the first time in his life, he seemed utterly helpless.

Thor left once they had Steve safely seated on the edge of the spacious tub, and Bucky was quick and methodical as he gave Steve a sponge bath.  Steve panted in the humid air.  He still didn’t speak, staring uselessly at the floor.  Bucky wanted to say something, but he didn’t.  He couldn’t.  There weren’t words to express how he was feeling.

Once they were done and Steve was clean and dressed, it was back to the room.  Clint and Thor had finished tidying up in their absence, and things didn’t seem so dreary or awful with the sun streaming in.  Thor immediately came to take Steve’s other arm and help him limp along.  This time they went to the seating area.  The doctors had mentioned yesterday that Steve needed to be sitting up more to reduce the threat of blood clots and help with his convalescence.  Therefore, they got him settled in a chair, supported by pillows, with a tray of food on his lap.  Just that meager walk from the bed to the bathroom and then from the bathroom to the chairs had Steve panting and covered in sweat.

Watching Steve try to eat was terrible.  He hadn’t had the occasion to before; Bucky had fed him when he’d been so weak and sick.  Now he hesitantly fumbled along the tray, searching for the utensils.  They all silently observed, trapped in their own pain and distress, before Clint murmured that he’d help getting the fork for him.  He put that in Steve’s hand before cutting up some of pancake and guiding him to spear it.  Bucky bit his lip until he tasted blood, watching in agony as Steve failed over and over again.  He could get the food to his mouth okay once it was secure on the fork.  Predictably, though, he had no luck in finding it on his plate.  After a while, they switched to the spoon.  Still, more than once eggs and pancake and fruit ended up toppling back off the utensil and onto the tray or Steve’s lap.

Steve grunted in frustration, eyes welling, and put everything down as best he could.  “Hey, it’s okay, Cap,” Clint said.  He looked sympathetic and understanding more than anything.  “It’s going to take time.  Trust me.”

“No one expects that you will simply recover,” Thor added.  Steve’s features tightened into something of a scowl.  He was staring emptily at the plate, and for a moment, it seemed like he’d break again.

He didn’t.  “I know,” he managed.  Then he doggedly searched for the spoon again.  In doing that, he knocked down the glass of orange juice that was unfortunately too close to everything else.  His tense expression shattered into one of horror as he felt the cold liquid soak into his pants.  “I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Clint said, rushing in and pulling the tray away.  Bucky couldn’t stand being on the sidelines anymore, and he drew Steve’s upper body against him like that could shield him from anything.

Steve was shaking, clutching Bucky desperately.  “You just got me cleaned up,” he gasped into his chest.

“It’s okay,” Clint declared again.  He wiped up the spilled juice.  “Don’t apologize.”

“You will make mistakes,” Thor added, laying a hand to Steve’s shoulder.  “But you can overcome them, overcome this.”  The demigod looked at Bucky, clearly seeking support.  “And there is no reason at the moment to abandon hope.  There may be a cure yet.”

That seemed like too much to think about right now, too much pressure and expectation.  Bucky felt itchy with anxiousness.  He couldn’t stand still a second longer with Thor’s imploring gaze on him, so he knelt in front of Steve and pulled the tray closer from where Clint had set it to the coffee table.  “Come on,” he murmured tenderly.  “Let me.”

A few minutes later, they had the juice mopped up.  Bucky fed Steve as much of the breakfast as Steve would eat.  Steve didn’t seem all that interested, mechanical and morose, maybe even a little detached as he chewed and swallowed obediently and stared emptily at nothing.  After that, while Clint cleared away the mess, Bucky got Steve back to the bathroom to clean him up again.  Thor came with a fresh pair of pants, and together they helped him dress.  Then it was back to the seating area.

Natasha was there waiting this time, a wheelchair beside her.  When she saw Steve, pain crossed her features in a flash before she managed to school them again.  “The physical therapists want Steve to come down,” she said.  “They’re waiting in the gym.”

Bruce had said that last night, that the therapists wanted to get started.  The doctors had all mentioned it, too.  Movement and therapy were key now.  Steve _had_ to get back on his feet, whatever that would mean in the end.  Still, this felt like it was moving so fast, even more so than it had yesterday.  After the long days in the medical ward with Steve barely conscious, with every minute slipping away so slowly, _this_ was coming too quickly, and Bucky didn’t feel ready.

Steve seemed to be, though.  Either that or he was putting up a hell of a brave front.  “Okay,” he said with a nod.

“Are you sure?” Bucky said.  “You don’t have to if you’re not feeling up to it.”  That was bullshit, terrible advice, projecting his own wishes in the most selfish sense, and Bucky knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying it.

“No, I…  I can do it,” Steve insisted.  Between Bucky and Thor he stood a little taller on his good leg, though it wasn’t much and it was with a pretty prominent wince.  He was staring in Natasha’s direction, not actually at her, and everyone was acutely aware of that fact.  Clint and Thor shared a glance, and Natasha looked like she wanted to cry for yet another second.  Steve was oblivious.  “Is everyone okay?”

This wasn’t the first time Steve had asked that since the battle, but before they’d given him short, simple answers trimmed of details.  He’d been so out of it that he couldn’t complain.  Now this wasn’t so much a hazy, confused murmur as a question from their friend and leader.  From Captain America.  “Everyone’s fine, Steve,” Clint answered.  “You were the only one who got hurt.”

“Civilians?” Steve asked as Bucky and Thor helped him to the wheelchair.  He moaned in pain as he sat.  Natasha was quick to raise the footrest enough so that his damaged leg could be straighter.  Fumbling forward with his hands, Steve bumped into her head.  His fingers slipped through her lush, red hair before brushing downward.  “Nat?”

This time a tear got away from Natasha before she could control it.  “Yeah, Steve.  Right here.”  She caught his right hand in her own and kissed it.  “Right here.”

“A few dozen were killed,” Clint answered, watching with pain in his eyes as Natasha held Steve’s hand close to her.  “A couple hundred more were injured.  But it could have been a lot worse.  We stopped them.”

Steve nodded slowly, clearly bothered at the loss of life.  “And they’re gone?  Any idea–”

“You’re not leading the team right now,” Bucky gently reminded.  He felt terrible saying that, but it had to be said.  “Just focus on getting better, okay?  SHIELD’s handling the situation.”

Steve’s face fell, and Bucky felt even worse.  Thankfully Thor was quick to speak.  “You must not think of these things now, Steve.  Bucky is right.  Your only concern for the moment is yourself and your recovery.  The team is well in hand.”

It took a second, but Steve seemed to accept that, reluctantly nodding.  “Yeah.  Yeah, you’re right.  Can’t do much from a wheelchair.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped.  “Steve–”

“No, it’s okay,” Steve said quickly.  His tone wasn’t angry or upset.  He even managed a little, rueful smile.  “Probably shouldn’t keep the therapists waiting.  Would someone mind taking me down?”

 _Jesus._   This hurt so much Bucky could have screamed.  He saw the others offer each other more concerned looks, and they were all motionless and very clearly aching.  Thor broke from the daze first, going to the handles of the wheelchair.  “Certainly,” he said brightly.  “I live to serve.”  He disengaged the wheelchair’s locks and started pushing it away from the seating area.

And Steve practically lurched in terror, reaching out frantically.  “Buck!  Bucky!  You’re coming, right?”

Bucky leapt to the side of the chair and took Steve’s flailing hand.  “Yeah,” he said quickly.  “Of course, I am.  Of course.”

Steve pulled Bucky’s hand to his face, pressing his palm to his own cheek.  Bucky watched him anchor onto him, watched him close his eyes and shiver through a breath.  He felt the others get worried again.  Bucky sighed and tipped Steve’s jaw up as he leaned down for a quick kiss.  He wasn’t used to being that open about his affections in front of the others, but he knew Steve needed the connection.  He needed it, too, considering how upside-down and invaded he felt.  The remnants of the Winter Soldier inside him yet again didn’t care to be that vulnerable, but there was less and less of a choice.  There was nothing but vulnerability at the moment.

Not long after that, they were heading down to the gym.  Thor pushed the wheelchair, and Bucky walked with his hand on Steve’s arm so he could know he was there at all times.  Clint and Natasha followed.  Nobody spoke this time, too.  Finding something to say, particularly something light and encouraging, was too difficult.  In one of the gym’s attached treatment rooms, a huge one full of mats and equipment for therapy, the team of physical therapists was waiting.  There were three of them, an older, grandmotherly African American woman with a sweet smile, a younger girl with blonde hair that had an obvious sunny, eager disposition, and a young man, a few years Peter’s senior.  If they were nervous seeing the Avengers coming their way, Captain America in a wheelchair with the Winter Soldier protectively at this side, it wasn’t all that obvious.

There was another man with them, too, one about Tony’s age with a long face, wire-rim glasses, and close-cropped dark brown hair.  He gave a gentle smile as their group approached.  The other therapists introduced themselves, and this man went last, announcing that he was an occupational therapist.

“An occupational therapist?” Thor said, squinting in confusion.  “I’ve never heard such a term.”

“Occupational therapy focuses on designing plans, interventions, and methods to help achieve occupational outcomes,” the man said.  That only made Thor look even more puzzled.  The therapist gave a disarming smile.  “We work with patients with disabilities.”  The mere mention of that word had Steve stiffening.  The others might not have noticed it, but Bucky did.  He couldn’t help but feel it.  He certainly went rigid himself.  The therapist smiled gently and went on.  “It’ll be my goal and the goal of my team to aid you in learning to live and work with your loss of sight, Captain.  With some adaptation and effort, we can find ways for you to achieve functional independence while limiting the negative impacts on your life.”

 _Negative impacts,_ Bucky thought bitterly.  _He’s fucking blind!_   But he didn’t say anything.  He recalled from the early days of his own therapy and reintegration into everyday life after Steve and Sam had brought him to the Avengers complex that his psychiatrist had recommended he receive some OT.  He’d suffered some serious cognitive, psychological, and physical impairments thanks to what HYDRA had done to him and the fact he was amputee.  Sure, he had the most advanced prosthetic in the world, but it was still a prosthetic.  Honestly, after so much time, he didn’t think of it much anymore.  And he’d never taken his therapist’s offer to hook him up with this kind of therapy.  He hadn’t seen the point.

Now he did.  Or he had to, at any rate.  He _should_.  But the fact that he should didn’t easily translate to actually being able to.  “Isn’t it early to be thinking about this?” he asked.  Everyone turned to him.  “They’re still trying to find a way to fix the serum.”

The man smiled sadly.  “I’m aware of that.  Mr. Stark briefed us on the situation when he hired us.”  _Tony hired them?_   That was like a punch to the gut.  Did that mean that Tony didn’t really believe there was a way to cure Steve?  That everything he’d said last night hadn’t been true?  Bucky made himself focus as the therapist addressed Steve.  “And you have nothing to worry about, Captain.  Even if we hadn’t all signed NDAs, we’re obligated by law to protect your privacy.  No information about your condition or your treatments will leave the complex.”

Steve didn’t seem to care.  “Okay,” he said softly.

“Right now, Captain Rogers, we’re just going to get an idea of your capabilities.  Actually, would you like us to call you captain?  Or would you prefer something else?”

“Steve is fine,” Steve said resignedly.  His head was lowered, his gaze on his lap.  He didn’t even look up when he spoke.  “Where do you want me?”

The older lady came over with a compassionate smile.  “Like Mr. Bernard said, we just want to assess right now and see how things are.  How well you can move, how much you can support your weight, what your level of pain is, and so forth.  We won’t begin more intensive therapy for days yet, until you feel strong enough and ready.”

“Considering your vision issues will impact your mobility, we think a combined approach to therapy will be beneficial, particularly in the beginning,” the occupational therapist – Mr. Bernard, apparently – added.  “Either myself or a member of my team will be on call for you at all times.  We also have access to a wide range of supportive services, including assistive technologies, mobility devices, and service animals.”

“Isn’t it premature to be thinking about all that?” Bucky asked again, and fuck if that didn’t sound petulant and selfish, but he still couldn’t stop himself.

“This is simply beginning to consider options, Mr. Barnes,” Mr. Bernard said calmly.  “That’s all we’ll be doing for right now.”

Even that felt like too much.  The room spun around Bucky, and this whole thing was so fucking pathetic because Steve was all that mattered now, but it was hard to shake his fear.  It was hard to accept that things were moving forward.  Thus he moved like an automaton, helping Steve up and out of the wheelchair and over to the treatment table.  Once again, Steve clung to him, hands tightly entwined in his shirt.  “Stay, Buck,” he gasped as he fell back against the pillow, eyes roving anew.  “Stay with me.”

“Right here,” Bucky promised with a whisper.  He grasped Steve’s hand, prying it from his shirt to hold it close to his chest.  Steve heaved a huge, strained sigh of relief, wheezing as he did.  “Right here.”

And Bucky stayed right there as the therapists started working.  True to their word, they didn’t do much.  They tested Steve’s range of motion in his bad leg, assessed his muscle strength, tried some light massage and some basic manipulation of his quadriceps (which were the muscles that had been the most damaged).  Extending his knee was particularly painful and difficult for Steve, but he didn’t back down from them working at it and didn’t complain.  He just held Bucky’s hand, squeezing as hard as he could, and breathed through it without a word.  The urge to tell the therapists to give it a rest was so damn strong, but Bucky figured if Steve could get through what needed to be done with nary a complaint, then he could, too.

After an hour or so of work, the PT group left and the OT group took over.  During that time, one of Steve’s neurologists, an expert on the brain’s visual processing centers, came down to talk to him.  Some more assessments (these more devastating than the physical examinations) followed, and when that was done, the neurologist confirmed what they’d suspected when they’d evaluated Steve days ago: he’d suffered severe, bilateral vision loss.  He had some measure of light/dark detection as well as movement detection on the periphery, but his perception in his central visual field was practically nonexistent beyond a vague, faint sensation of light.  No detail.  No depth perception.  No color.  Steve was, by all accounts, blind.

Yet again the doctor didn’t come out and say it that way, but it was fucking obvious.  Bucky watched Bernard go over things with Steve, explaining that he’d need to relearn the very basics of living: dressing, eating, working, using technology, bathing, taking care of himself.  Navigating a world he could no longer visually perceive.  Functioning without endangering himself and with as little impact on his sense of autonomy and pride as possible.  Bernard swore that, with time, work, and a little open-mindedness, it was possible.  Plus Tony had already pledged to completely refit Steve’s suite with whatever accommodations the OT team saw fit and that Steve wanted.  With the breadth of Stark’s scientific genius at their disposal, it was even quite possible that new technologies could be developed.  Bucky supposed that was true.  Friday could be watching over Steve constantly, guiding him, letting him know where things were and how to find them.  God, that felt like an invasion of privacy, though.

And this was more evidence that maybe Tony was giving up, that he wasn’t nearly so confident as he’d seemed the night before.  If Tony was offering to design and build whatever assistive equipment they wanted, then was he lying about thinking he could fix the serum?  The idea just made Bucky’s mood darker as he wheeled Steve back up to their suite.  Steve was silent, solemn, and sleepy in the chair, slumped a bit.  Hopefully he’d stay awake long enough to eat lunch.

Sam was back at their place.  Natasha and Wanda were with him.  “How’d it go?” Sam asked as they came in.

Bucky glanced at Natasha.  She, Clint, and Thor had stayed for some of it, but they’d left when Steve had started to cry silently during the worst parts of the PT.  They hadn’t been there for the neurologist telling Steve point-blank that he’d never see again.  Of course, Bucky had known that.  Steve had certainly realized.  Actually hearing it though had been crushing all over again.

Steve answered before he could.  “Fine.  ’m beat.”

“I bet,” Sam said with an affectionate smile.  He dropped his hand to Steve’s drooping shoulder and knelt in front of the wheelchair.  “You are one tough old man, Cap.”

Steve managed a weak smile.  He was shaking, probably from the pain.  “Thanks?  I guess?”

Sam chuckled, and that went a long way toward lightening the mood.  “We brought lunch,” Wanda declared.  “We can eat, and then you can sleep.”

“After some O2 and some painkillers,” Sam said, grasping Steve’s hands.  “You okay with me taking over for a bit?  Bucky looks like he needs a break.”

Bucky bristled.  “I don’t need–”

Natasha came over and took his flesh and blood hand.  That was enough to make him jump and then scowl at her before he could stop himself.  She was uncaring.  “You need a break,” she said.  He knew her well enough to see there was more to it than smothering concern that he was taking too much on himself.

That tempered his irritation.  With a sigh, he let go of the handles of the wheelchair and went around to the front.  Sam got out of the way so he could take Steve’s hands himself.  “Are you alright with them for a bit?  It’s alright if you’re not.”

Maybe it was because Steve was too tired or too worn.  Maybe it was the fact that he couldn’t see the others and was having a hard time gauging their reactions and couldn’t therefore measure his own in comparison.  Or maybe he was more afraid than before.  He was definitely in a lot of pain.  It didn’t matter.  That brave front all but fell away, and yet again, it seemed like he’d crack.  Bucky sighed through his own sob, furious with himself for being so fucking emotional and holding it back as he cupped Steve’s face.  “Steve…”

Steve pulled in a wildly shaking breath.  He winced, probably suffering from chest pain, and let his eyes slip shut.  Maybe that was comfort to him now.  Nothingness as opposed to a dim blur that should have been so much more.  “’m okay,” he managed.  “Just tired.”  He gave another weak smile that did nothing to hide all his pain.  “You go take a break.  You need one.  Gotta be more… more tired than me.  All you been doin’ all day is luggin’ me around.”

 _Bullshit._   Bucky didn’t say that, though.  He just leaned in and kissed Steve’s sweaty forehead and then his lips.  He rubbed his cheek.  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.  And Sam’ll get me if you need me.  Won’t you, Sam?”

Sam nodded.  “Sure.  Nothing to worry about, Steve.”

Steve didn’t look certain, but he nodded all the same.  Bucky kissed his brow again before standing and stepping back.  Steve tried to hang onto him before he could stop himself.  Seeing that hurt. 

But Wanda came over and offered a soft smile, one Steve couldn’t see of course, but her gentle hands conveyed her love as she took Steve’s hands and squeezed them.  “I made soup.  And baklava.  Well, Viz helped.  He’ll be by in a bit.  Does that sound good?”  It wasn’t clear if she was talking about the lunch she’d made or Vision coming around, but it didn’t matter.  She sounded light and cheerful, and that helped with Steve’s hesitation.  Sam wheeled him toward the bedroom, Wanda walking at his side and getting a constant hold of his hand, and Bucky made himself think it would be okay.

Once they were gone, he sagged and closed his eyes, letting go of his stoic mask.  “Fuck,” he whispered, pulling his hair from its messy bun and scratching his hands through it.  He felt stupendously helpless, utterly and stupidly _useless_ , as he stood there, itching to do something but not having any idea what (or the energy to do it regardless).  “Just… fuck.”

Natasha’s soft voice was loaded with pain she couldn’t hide.  “James.”

Bucky sucked in a painful breath, forcing himself to calm down.  “Don’t.  I’m alright.”  He scrubbed viciously at his eyes to clear the tears.  Then he turned to her.  “What did you want to tell me?”

Natasha sighed softly, folding her arms across her chest like she needed to do something with herself to stay sane.  “Sam knows, but I haven’t told the rest of the team yet.  I definitely didn’t want to say anything in front of Steve.”

That immediately got Bucky’s attention.  Was it good news or bad news?  _Can’t possibly be anything worse._   “What?”

Natasha looked caught between excitement and dread.  “I just got back from talking to Tony.  Helen Cho is coming this afternoon.  She thinks she might have come up with a way to alter her regeneration cradle to repair the damage to the serum.”

Time came crashing to a halt.  Bucky couldn’t process that, not for what felt like forever.  He finally managed to speak.  “She…  She thinks she can fix him?”

Natasha was quick to continue.  “Don’t get too excited yet,” she warned.  “I talked to Bruce too, and he said it’s too soon to tell if this is going to work.  There are a ton of unknowns, and they can’t run any simulations until Doctor Cho gets here.”

“But there’s a chance,” Bucky said quickly, unable to deny the jolt of hope rushing through his veins.  It was like electricity, stealing his breath and making his heart pound.  He took a step toward Natasha, wildly searching her face for confirmation.  “She thinks there’s a chance.”

Natasha fought not to smile as she nodded.  For the first time in days, there was light in her eyes.  “Yeah, she does.  Tony does, too.”

Bucky’s joy was abrupt and overwhelming.  Before he even thought better of it, he was sweeping Natasha into his arms in a huge hug.  It was very much _not_ like him, not like who he was now or like the Winter Soldier.  It was a touch of Bucky from before, Bucky from the 1920s and 1930s when he was brave enough to be who he’d been, to act so open and so lost in his emotions with someone who was just a friend.  Natasha was stiff with surprise for a second, but she succumbed easily enough, melting into his embrace.  She lingered there, grasping him back, trembling and breathing deeply like this was as much a comfort to her as it was to him.

Eventually she pulled away, shaking her head and struggling to pull herself together.  He could sense her shame and embarrassment.  “Look at the two of us,” she said, caught between smiling and frowning.  “What would our handlers think?  The Red Room?  Seeing us like this.”

Bucky didn’t give a damn.  “To hell with them.”

Natasha settled on smiling and chuckling.  She wiped at her eyes a little.  “There should be time enough for Steve to sleep before Cho arrives.  You, too.”

“I don’t need–”

“ _Yes,_ you do,” she replied sternly.  “I don’t want to hear it.  Let’s eat, and then you rest while he rests.”

Bucky was too elated to argue.  He followed Natasha back to the bedroom.  Wanda and Sam had already gotten Steve in bed.  Wanda was spoon-feeding him the soup she’d made.  It smelled delicious and hearty, but Steve was clearly uninterested with most of it untouched on the tray.  The baklava was also uneaten, which was unusual; Steve loved sweets, and he especially loved Wanda’s desserts.  She certainly had a knack for baking and cooking, but it seemed to be going to waste now.  Probably the painkillers had been the nail in the coffin of Steve’s stamina.  He was glassy-eyed even more than normal and very slow to respond when Wanda prodded at him with another spoonful.

“Think we should let him sleep,” Sam advised.  He looked over at Bucky as he approached, clearly calmer and more at peace than he had been in days.  Hope had a tendency to do that.  “Both of them.”

“Bucky?” Steve murmured, waking from his doze for a moment to look around in a bit of a frenzy.

“I’m here,” Bucky answered, and he was quick to nudge his shoes off and climb into the bed.  He reached Steve’s side, touching his hands and then his face.  Despite the warning, Steve clearly hadn’t anticipated that and startled just a bit.  “Shhh.  I’m here.  You can sleep,” Bucky soothed.

Wanda gave them a compassionate smile.  “I’ll put the food in the fridge outside,” she declared, lifting the tray from the bed.  “For later.”

“Thanks,” Bucky replied, rubbing a hand over Steve’s chest as his husband relaxed again and sank more into the bed.

Sam helped get Steve flatter, taking care to keep his injured leg supported as he did.  Once Steve was settled and tucked in, their friend leaned back and met Bucky’s gaze.  “We’ll come back when it’s time.”  With that promise, Natasha, Sam, and Wanda left.

Steve was asleep before they were out the door.  Bucky curled up close, pulling Steve carefully toward him, and watched him for a while.  He watched his pink lips part with even breaths that sounded steadier and deeper than the day before.  He watched his chest rise and fall.  He watched his eyelashes flutter ever so slightly against the pale skin of his cheekbones.  He watched it all, mesmerized by it.  Many minutes slipped away, and he didn’t try to hold onto them.  He didn’t try to sleep, either.  He was too excited, too afraid, too worried and hopeful.  His brain vibrated with it, and his body ached with the possibility.  He knew he shouldn’t get ahead of himself.  Natasha was right; _none_ of them should.

But as he laid there and watched Steve sleep, all he could think about were Steve’s beautiful blue eyes, sharp and full of recognition, and how wonderful it would be to see them again.

* * *

Helen Cho was a genius.  Bucky had never met her before, but he knew that.  She was the world’s pre-eminent geneticist, a true powerhouse in the field, and her expertise had allowed her to design and build the cradle.  It was a biomedical system specifically designed to promote cellular growth and regeneration by triggering certain sections of human DNA.  The cradle was, to Bucky’s understanding, the closest, stable substitute to the healing power of the serum that mankind had developed thus far.  More than once, it had saved the life or limb of one of the less enhanced Avengers, Clint or Natasha or Sam usually.  The ones who were less protected from the risks of battle.

Maybe it could save Steve now.

That was the hope anyway, and it was running rampant the day the team had decided to try it.  That first night Cho arrived, Steve hadn’t quite understood what was happening.  On top of not being able to see anything, everyone kept the details sparse and the excited chatter to a minimum as Cho and her team performed their examinations.  Bucky had stayed with Steve as he lay on a gurney after the scans, trying to explain what was happening without really explaining anything.  And it had all felt just a little cruel and manipulative; for crying out loud, Steve was a grown man and among the most mature Bucky had ever met.  He deserved to know what his prospects were, that Tony, Bruce, and Helen had been on the other side of the glass observation room and discussing the particulars of getting this to work.  Of getting the cradle to repair Steve’s DNA, or at the very least to perhaps get it to help with the nerve damage in his brain and in his leg.  Bucky had kept watching them expectantly while he held Steve’s hand but dodged all his questions.

When Tony had looked over, caught his gaze, and smiled, Bucky hadn’t been able to suppress a grin of his own, and he’d promptly spilled the beans.

That had been three days ago.  Since then, Helen and her team had worked tirelessly to adjust the cradle to try and deal with the damage to the serum.  Bucky didn’t understand the science behind it at all.  It was something about using the radiation signature of the alien weaponry to adapt the cradle’s own energy waves.  That seemed dangerous; this was the same radiation that had vaporized people, that had damaged the serum so severely to begin with.  Doctor Cho assured them all that the levels would be very low, too low, presumably, to do much harm, even if they had to increase the intensity to produce the desired effects.  Bucky didn’t feel great about that, to be honest.  Still, to him, the how and what couldn’t matter.  The prospect that all of this, this nightmare and all of the pain that had come with it, could be over was so overwhelmingly _good_ that it was all Bucky really cared about, all _anyone_ cared about.  The mood in the complex had gone from somber and tense to light and affectionate.  And everyone _still_ knew it was far too early to be so joyous about this.  Helen was quick to remind them all that this was a procedure that had never been tested, had never even been _fathomed_ before this, and therefore was fraught with a ton of unknowns.  Furthermore, the only way to test it at this point was to try it on Steve.  That was frightening in and of itself.

Not to mention the fact that it was this mindset that had caused all the damage in the first place.  Perhaps that wasn’t entirely true, not solely and not strictly, but they’d used Project: Delilah without fully understanding the implications and without testing it.  Of course, there hadn’t been a choice, but the fear wasn’t so easily assuaged.

Still, even the fear wasn’t enough to dissuade anyone, least of all Steve himself.  The last few days he’d been far more active, far more interested in his surroundings, and far more verbal.  Therapy was more involved now.  It was almost two weeks since Steve’s injury, and the physical therapists had him up and working on a host of things, including his endurance, strength, and coordination.  He was standing more and more every day, putting a great deal of effort into everything they asked of him.  Some of it was Steve’s own grit and determination, his own drive to succeed in what he did, but Bucky thought a lot of his motivation also oddly came from the belief that, in the end, he wouldn’t need what he was doing.  Doctor Cho’s procedure would fix him, so none of this was really necessary, so it wouldn’t hurt to try his best.  Thinking that the results didn’t matter made it easier to deal with the pain and exhaustion and general unpleasantness of it all.  It also put an endpoint on things.  It wouldn’t hurt and be hard to walk for the rest of his life, just a few more days maybe, and that was tolerable.

That mindset didn’t extend to the occupational therapy, though.  Steve wasn’t rude at all to Bernard or his team, but he certainly wasn’t all that interested or invested in what they were saying.  Given Steve’s lack of mobility, the OT team was focusing on strategies for daily living: feeding himself, washing, dressing himself, and generally being a self-sufficient as possible.  Bernard stressed the ideas of consistency, of Steve placing things as close to the same location as he could every time, of managing the world in such a way as to be able to navigate it without sight.  Coping strategies.  There was no right or wrong way to go about it.  Bernard promised that over and over again.  Whatever system Steve developed that worked for him was fine, as long as he could stick to it.  They worked quite a bit on eating in this manner, making a routine of it.  Fork in the right hand, knife in the right.  Beverage in the same place every time in relation to the plate.  Napkin, too.  The plate became a clockface, and they instructed Steve to ask where things were in relation to that.  Then he could move the food into the same position every time, with the meat at twelve o’clock, for example, and vegetables as six o’clock and so forth.  With his motor skills settling, getting food cut and onto the spoon or fork wasn’t so hard anymore.  Also, thanks to proprioception, he had no trouble getting it into his mouth.

But knowing where things were was tricky.  There were special plates for blind people that Bernard brought, ones that divided food naturally and made it easier to scoop it, but Steve didn’t use them beyond when the therapists were there coaching him.  Whatever acceptance and interest he managed for the OT team was completely for show.  He was proud and stubborn, so accepting special treatment or even asking someone to explain what was on his plate to him was embarrassing.  So was learning how to brush his teeth and shave and dress all by remembering where things were.  He had Friday guiding him, and Bucky too, of course, so that definitely made things easier.  Still, Steve wasn’t the sort to ask for help.  He never had been, even when he’d been small and sickly.  God, Bucky remembered that all too well, Steve coughing all night but refusing the thicker blankets or Steve not wanting extra money for food or Steve coming home black and blue but insisting everything was right as rain.  Of all the unpleasantness of his youth, the varying ways he’d lost his dignity or his capabilities, this was wholly new and alien.  And for someone who’d resisted pity and acceptance of his own limitations like a cat scratching and yowling to get away from water, this was degrading.

The second that Bernard had mentioned learning Braille and seeing a psychiatrist to help with the cognitive and emotional issues stemming from the battle and his injuries, Steve had shut down completely.  Again, he wasn’t rude, per se, but Bucky knew Steve better than he knew anything and anyone else.  He recognized the signs of Steve politely giving someone the cold brush-off.

That was okay, though.  If the procedure worked, they wouldn’t need it.

The morning they were set to try it, Bucky helped Steve take a bath.  They kept the bandages around Steve’s leg dry as they got every other part of him washed.  After that, Steve brushed his own teeth, finding his toothbrush himself, squirting paste directly into his mouth like the OTs had showed him, and getting the job done all while he leaned heavily into the vanity for support.  Bucky stayed right with him, watching to make sure he was steady.  Steve seemed to have more trouble breathing in hot, wet air.  He just handled it without complaint, though, and spat into the sink.  As he fumbled a bit for the towel on the rack, Bucky couldn’t help but notice all over again that Steve was… _thinner._   Not skinny, not by any means, but he wasn’t as muscular as he’d been two weeks ago.  His eight-pack of abs wasn’t so obvious anymore.  His biceps and pecs were amply sized but not what they had been.  The huge, beautiful contours of his back and thighs weren’t so well defined.  He looked like an average young man, tall and slender and someone who took care of himself, but there was nothing _special_ about his constitution anymore.  Nothing enhanced about his physique.

And he had scars.  There were a couple angry red ones on his chest and stomach where the surgeons had cut him open to save his life.  His leg was still a bruised, marred mess, even under the bandages.  Those were the sorts of things that would have been gone within hours with the serum.  Now they were lingering, puckered or reddened marks, tender sores and darker lines and splotches.  All the evidence of what had happened was right before them, staring back at them in the slightly fogged bathroom mirror.

For once, Bucky was glad Steve couldn’t see.

He could feel, though, and he ran his hand over his jaw once he finished wiping his face.  “Bucky?”

Bucky was quick to snap from his reverie, reaching over and touching Steve like he had thousands of times over the last couple weeks to ensure Steve knew where he was.  “Yeah, doll.  Right here.”

Steve grimaced, rubbing his chin.  “Think we could get rid of this?”  The _this_ he was talking about was the slightly scraggly stubble covering his face.  He still hadn’t shaved it, and Bucky hadn’t, either.  “They keep wanting me to try myself, but I’d probably cut my throat open.”  He gave a self-deprecating, shaky grin.  “Would be quicker.”

“That ain’t funny, Stevie,” Bucky chastised, and he meant it.  During the darkest days of Steve’s ill youth, Steve had never said anything so vulgar.  “Your ma’d be sick to her stomach.”

Steve had the decency to blush.  “Sorry.  I don’t…  You know I don’t think that.”

Bucky knew it.  He prayed he did, at any rate.  He reached for Steve’s shaving kit, pulling out the brush and his straight razor. “It would be easier if you sat on the can.  You’re still taller than me, serum workin’ or no.”

Steve nodded and did as he was told, one hand on the vanity for balance and the other out in front of him. He took an uncertain step out, found the toilet, fumbled to lower the lid, and clumsily parked himself there.

Meanwhile Bucky loaded the brush with cream and ran the water hot. His eyes shot to his reflection in the mirror before he could stop them, and he sharply looked away.  He didn’t want to see himself, see all the weakness and darkness and damage. Not now.  He exhaled slowly, puffing his lips out a bit as he did, trying to calm his rattled nerves.  Then he got to it, draping a towel across Steve’s shoulders and lathering up his face with the thick cream.  Once he was done, he set the little brush down and raised the straight razor.  Steve sat with his chin up, eyes open and staring directly into the bathroom lights overhead.  Not at Bucky.  Bucky sighed, staring at the sharp, gleaming edge of the razor.  It was trembling a bit where it rested right about the line of Steve’s jaw.  That was because Bucky’s hand was trembling.  “Christ,” he whispered, shaking his head and forcing himself to calm down.  “Maybe it would be better if you did it.”

“Bucky?”

“Sat for six hours in a tiny closet once, holding a rifle, not moving, not hardly breathing, waiting for my mark to come back from a night of partying.  I should be able to do this.”  Bucky drew a deep breath.  He set the blade to Steve’s cheek.  “Hold still, love.”

Steve did.  Bucky started shaving him quickly and precisely, smoothly sliding the razor along his skin.  They were silent for a bit as Bucky worked, the soft scrape of the razor and Steve’s now familiar wheezing the only sounds.  The quiet wasn’t comfortable.  Steve was pliant but he wasn’t entirely relaxed as Bucky tipped his face and shaved him.  Bucky could hardly breathe for how tense he was getting.  Finally, when he was nearly done, the question that had been twisting about his thoughts for days, ever since Doctor Cho had first suggested the possibility of repairing the serum, just burst out.  He didn’t want to say it, but he felt so raw and scared.  “What if it doesn’t work?”

Steve blinked.  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing so close to the razor’s sharp edge, the sharp edge Steve couldn’t see, couldn’t even sense was so close.  “I don’t know,” he whispered after a moment.

“What if it doesn’t fix anything?  Or what if it hurts you?”  Bucky felt so fucking ashamed, but he went on.  “I’m scared.  I’m really fucking scared.  I have been this whole time, and…  Christ, I shouldn’t be saying this to you.”

“You should,” Steve said.  He tentatively touched Bucky’s legs, letting his hands travel up to Bucky’s waist.  He held on there and pulled Bucky closer.  “You need to lean on me, too.”

Bucky only barely lifted the razor in time so that it didn’t end up in Steve’s throat.  The close call left him cold.  _Jesus._   He set the razor to the vanity, blinking back tears and looking down at his husband as Steve stared upward.  It was too much, too terrible, and Bucky found himself pulling Steve’s hands away.  Then he wiped Steve’s face clean with the towel.  “But what if this doesn’t work?” he asked again.

“Then we try something else,” Steve said softly.  He closed his eyes and laid his head against Bucky’s stomach, kissing there through the cotton of his t-shirt.  “We just keep trying.  We don’t give up.”

As if opportunities like this one were so easy to come by.  As if there’d _be_ other chances.  Bucky closed his eyes too, shivering through a breath and combing his metal fingers through Steve’s yet damp hair.  Steve clutched him tighter, digging his fingers into the small of Bucky’s back.  “I’ll be okay, Buck,” Steve declared in the quiet.  “I’m okay.  You don’t gotta worry about me.”  That hurt so much.  All this hope inside quaked, like a foundation cracking and threatening to crumble.  Steve didn’t seem to notice, running his hand up and down Bucky’s lower back.  He pulled back and looked up.  “Can you kiss me?”

Bucky had to swallow his sob.  “’course, you dumb punk.”  He dropped down and took Steve’s soft lips in a deep kiss, stroking his newly smooth cheeks.  Steve tasted like minty toothpaste and smelled like shaving cream and that scent that Bucky knew was just his, masculine and clean sweat and warm skin.  Bucky breathed it all in, savoring every second.

They finished up in the bathroom and got dressed.  Bucky helped Steve with that, sliding his legs carefully into the track pants.  Bucky could tell Steve’s bad leg was hurting him more than normal today, probably from overdoing it in PT the day before.  He’d been off the morphine for a couple days now, having basically refused it after getting more mobile because it made him too sleepy and loopy.  Bucky hadn’t been thrilled with the choice, but he sure as shit wasn’t going to take whatever agency Steve had away from him.  He still got him a larger dose of the pill painkillers he’d been given instead and made sure he took them as they ate a quick, mostly silent breakfast.  Despite how little he cared for therapy, Steve was definitely getting better at handling meals.  Bucky put things in their proper places without saying a thing, using the clockface layout the occupational folks kept stressing.  He didn’t say what was on the plate and where, not wanting to push it.  Steve didn’t seem all that interested at any rate, eating just to get it over with.

Then they were heading down to the lab.  The walk was silent, Bucky pushing the wheelchair, Steve tense and staring ahead.  The short trip seemed to take forever, fraught with hope, expectations, worries, and fears.  So much anxiety and anticipation.  It was almost a relief to get to the lab deep in the medical ward.

Almost.  The second Friday opened the secured, glass doors for them and they rolled inside, everyone was all over them.  Sam and Natasha and Clint.  Thor.  Vision and Wanda.  They were all there, and they were smiles and bright eyes and barely restrained excitement.  Steve donned a smile of his own, but his expression betrayed how nervous he was.  Seeing that, the Avengers made even more of an effort of being light and dismissive, joking a moment or two about inane things, trying to distract Steve and ease the tension.  It was a nice gesture at least.  They weren’t going to go into the lab to keep the chaos down to a minimum, so with hugs and assurances that they’d be right there waiting, they sent Steve and Bucky on alone.

Tony and Bruce greeted them in the main area where Cho’s team had set up the cradle.  Tony donned a dazzling smile, but Bucky could see the cracks along the edges.  He was jittery, very exhausted, and really nervous.  “Morning,” he greeted, like this was any other day, any old thing about to happen.  He looked at Steve.  “Morning, Steve-o.”

Steve turned his head to Tony, but didn’t focus on him.  Tony seemed upset by that, glancing at Bucky and then at Bruce like he needed confirmation that this was normal.  Tony hadn’t been spending much (any, really) time with Steve since the battle.  Part of that was certainly because he’d been busy with this, but Bucky had thought days ago that some of it was that Tony was too scared of the situation.  He was keeping his distance.  He was avoiding everything, and using this project as an excuse.  It was out of both guilt and fear.  Now evidence of the choice he’d pushed them all to make was right in front of him, and he was unable to hide how much it hurt.

But Steve was none the wiser about Tony’s dismay.  At least, he didn’t seem to be.  Of course, his gentle smile could have been for Tony’s benefit rather than actually feeling good about any of this.  “Hey, Tony.”  He reached up his hand, clearly waiting for Tony to touch him.

Tony hesitated.  That was another thing Tony hadn’t done since all of this had happened.  He hadn’t touched Steve, hadn’t hugged him, hadn’t _anything_ with him.  Well, Bucky didn’t think he had.  There was a time when Steve had still been in the medical ward, right after they’d realize the serum had failed…  Looking back on it now, Bucky had thought it was a dream.  He’d fallen asleep at Steve’s bedside, and he could have sworn he’d heard someone crying, someone whispering quick words, someone apologizing and begging and in so much pain.  Bucky had thought for a time that he’d imagined himself doing that, or he’d been so tired he actually had done it and couldn’t remember it clearly.  Now…

Tony finally found the courage to take Steve’s hand.  Their fingers wove together, and Tony got brave enough to come closer and crouch in front of the chair.  “You look good,” he said.

It was the truth.  Steve did look so much better than he had even a few days ago.  “For a blind guy?” he said with a laugh, hauling that one-ton gorilla from the corner of the room and throwing it front and center.  Tony winced.  “Thanks.  Somethin’ tells me you look like shit.”

Tony pressed his lips together thinly.  “You know me all too well.”

Steve’s smile collapsed a little.  He closed his eyes and let his hands travel up Tony’s arm, up to his shoulder and then to his face.  A look of discomfort crossed Tony’s expression; it was pretty well-known (even to Bucky) that he didn’t care to be touched and definitely not touched like this.  But he calmed himself right away and let Steve’s probing fingers go where they needed to, sweeping over Tony’s nose and cheeks before rubbing gently at his untidy goatee.  Steve shook his head.  “Yep.  When’s the last time you slept?”

Tony sighed and reached up and took Steve’s hands.  He didn’t push them away, though, and didn’t let them go.  “Eh.  You know me.  I don’t need sleep.”  Steve didn’t look pleased, frowning.  He didn’t track Tony’s gaze at all as Tony searched his face, studying him.  “I’ll take a break when this works.”

“You think it will?” Bucky asked, and that sounded pathetically desperate, but there was no holding the question back.

Tony looked up at him.  The soft smile he’d had for his best friend hardened with shame and pain.  “Genius, remember?  Of course it will.”  That wasn’t at all comforting.  Tony brushed it all aside, though, standing and taking control of the wheelchair from Bucky.  “Let’s get you all comfy and good to go.  We’re going to run some tests before we try the actual procedure, so we need to…”  Tony’s voice got quieter as he pushed Steve into the main area, where the regeneration cradle was surrounded by lab techs.  The sliding glass doors sealed.  Helen came right over to Steve, smiling brightly and disarmingly, holding a StarkPad and already talking about their plans.  She was pretty, seemingly too young to be so accomplished, and very kind.  Bucky couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying.  He should probably get in there.

Before he could, though, Bruce came up to him.  “You think you could hold on a moment?”  He gestured toward a lab bench.  “I, um, wanted to ask you for some blood samples.”

Bucky’s forehead furrowed in confusion.  “Blood samples?”

Bruce nodded.  He already had phlebotomy supplies unpackaged and ready to go.  “If you wouldn’t mind.  Sit?” 

Worriedly, Bucky glanced into the lab space beyond.  Steve was tense without him, looking around a lot.  Why wouldn’t he be, not knowing exactly what was going on and who was with him?  As Bucky watched, though, he realized…  Well, Tony was with him.  And Tony had wizened up to how much Steve needed touch, so he was right there with his hands on Steve at all times, staying close, appreciating how unnerving this was and compensating.  That was enough for now, wasn’t it?  Bucky could stay back for a bit.

So he did what Bruce said and took a seat on one of the stools.  He watched Bruce don a pair of gloves and get things ready.  Seeing the needle and the tourniquet put him on edge.  Stuff like this always did, memories of HYDRA’s hell creeping too close.  He didn’t need that shit ever, but particularly not now.  He cleared his throat.  “Why do you need my blood?”

Bruce sighed, reaching up to get some vials from a container.  He set those down and grabbed the tourniquet.  Without being told, Bucky rolled up his sleeve on his flesh and blood arm.  “Well, like I said a few days ago, we don’t have any samples of Steve’s blood that aren’t contaminated by the radiation.  We’re still looking to see if SHIELD has a repository somewhere.  Apparently Fury had the same policy about not banking Steve’s blood in place at SHIELD that he does here.  I guess it makes sense, given what we know now about Project: Delilah.”  He grunted.  “You know, when Fury put that mandate in place when the team reformed after DC, I didn’t feel good about it, I have to admit.  But he said that people would kill for Steve’s blood.  He went on and on about how dangerous it could be if samples were kept and fell into the wrong hands.”  He sat on the stool next to Bucky, his lab coat dangling down, and wrapped the latex band around Bucky’s bicep.  He started prodding for a vein, bitterly muttering, “The irony.”

“I thought you said my version of the serum isn’t the same as Steve’s,” Bucky commented, sucking in a soft breath and looking away as Bruce slid the needle in.

“It’s not,” Bruce said.  “But yours is the closest thing we have at this point to what the serum was.”

It took Bucky a moment to process that, to realize the implications.  “You don’t think this is going to work.”

Bruce didn’t answer, swapping out vials as one became full and then tipping it back and forth a bit before setting it to the lab bench.  Bucky turned to him, feeling increasingly sicker and it had nothing to do with the flashback he’d almost had.  “Doctor Banner,” he prompted.

“I don’t know,” Bruce finally said.  He watched the second tube fill with the thick, dark liquid.  Bucky watched, too.  “I just don’t know.  Tony and Helen believe the key lies in what the radiation did to the serum, and I don’t deny that it might, but I’m not sure using the cradle to introduce similar radiation will do anything but…”  He sighed, switching to a third vial.  “I’m not saying it can’t work.  I just don’t know that it will.  Their theory is solid, but in reality…”  He finally met Bucky’s gaze.  “The serum’s damaged, Bucky.  I don’t know that it can be fixed.”

Hearing Bruce say that made his heart drop.  After a horrible moment, Bucky remembered to take a breath.  “Okay.”

“But there are things we can still try,” Bruce said, “which is why I need the blood.  Maybe analyzing your DNA can help me understand more how Steve’s DNA’s been altered.  Maybe I can figure out a way to distill the serum in your blood to create some sort of… _treatment_ for Steve.  I was never able to do that with Steve’s serum, the few times I had the occasion to attempt it.  With Fury’s policy and Steve’s honestly understandable aversion to the idea of being a lab rat, I was never able to work with the problem much.  I haven’t tried with yours.”

“I don’t heal as well as Steve does – _did_.”  Bucky grimaced as he corrected himself, as the depth of what Bruce was saying started to sink in.

“I know, but it’s better than nothing,” Bruce said.  With the third vial filled, he released Bucky’s arm from the tourniquet and pulled the needle free.  That little sting of pain felt so big and sharp.  Bucky grimaced.  Everything seemed too close, and the world was off-kilter.  Hope was mixing with so much dread and fear, and he felt lost in it, grasping for who he should be and fighting away who he had been.  For a second, things were so _wrong_ that he could almost sense the Winter Soldier rising inside him.

But he wasn’t.  The dark places stayed dark and distant.  It took him a moment to realize Bruce was watching him.  “I’m not saying there’s no hope,” the scientist quietly declared.  “I’m also not saying we shouldn’t try.  And I’m not saying Tony and Helen’s plan won’t work.  I just…”  He exhaled slowly again, peeling off the latex gloves and tossing them in the trash.  “I don’t think there’s going to be a miracle cure for this is all.  Tony thinks fast, and he’s incredibly smart, but he’s used to things going his way, and he’s used to being able to just _solve_ problems.  And he feels…  He’s hurting.  Badly.”  Bucky rolled his shirt sleeve back down, biting his lip until he tasted blood.  Bruce sighed.  “So he _wants_ things to work out.  But, like I said, I don’t know that Steve’s situation can be fixed just like that.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing at all.  Bruce took the blood vials.  Then he looked through the windows to the lab.  “You better go in there.”

Bucky followed Bruce’s gaze and saw Steve twisting about, clearly trying to look around again, this time more frantically.  Tony was beside the wheelchair, which had been pushed to the cradle in the center of the room.  He was trying to convince Steve to allow them to get him inside, and Steve was…  Well, terrified probably wasn’t too far off the mark, though he was trying hard to hide it.  Bucky set his jaw and gathered himself and went in.  “Is it time?”

Helen came closer.  “We think so, Mr. Barnes.  Maybe you could help Captain Rogers get into the cradle?”

Bucky quickly made his way to Steve’s side.  “You ready?” he asked, putting on a strong air of confidence and a control.  Steve immediately relaxed when he felt Bucky’s metal hand on his shoulder.  Bucky was noticing more and more that his cybernetic hand was a comfort to him.  It didn’t take a genius to figure out why.  The metal hand was uniquely Bucky and easy to identify.  Steve reached up and ran his hand over the black fingers, like he needed to double-check.  “Steve?”

“Yeah.”  That simple exchange of touch was all Steve seemed to need to ground himself.  “Yeah, I’m ready.  Let’s do this.”

Tony nodded, pleased.  “Awesome.  Come on.  Let’s get you in.”

With Bucky’s help, Tony got Steve standing from the wheelchair.  There wasn’t much more Tony could do, but Bucky very easily lifted Steve into his arms bridal style, dispensing with the awkward clumsiness of Steve trying to get in himself.  Bucky gently set him down on the table.  “This is a duplicate of the cradle we have in Seoul,” Helen declared as Steve squirmed and tried to get comfortable.  “Tony had it built using the schematics I sent in what has to be a record amount of time.”

Tony smiled, but it was fake and strained.  “What can I say?  I’m speedy.”  The assistants brought equipment over, Bucky noted warily.  Steve wriggled some more, wincing a bit.  “Doing okay?” Tony asked.  “Anything bothering you?”

“No, no,” Steve gasped.  He grimaced and tried to relax.  “I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Tony said.  “First of all, you just don’t.  Secondly, if all goes well, you’ll be in here for a while, so it should feel decent.”

Steve smiled weakly.  “’s just cold.”

“No problem.  Friday?” Tony called.

“Raising the temperature three degrees, boss,” Friday replied.  “The system is ready.”

“What?” Steve gasped, squirming even more as the assistants started touching him.  They were attaching sensors.  Bucky had to bite down a growl; they were doing that without warning and without Steve’s consent.  For crying out loud, he couldn’t see.

Thankfully, Tony was even faster to react.  “I’ll do that, thanks,” he snapped.  Helen winced and murmured an apology, and her team backed off.  Tony scowled a little as he turned back to Steve and Bucky.  “Sorry.”

“’s okay,” Steve said again, but Bucky could see he was even more rattled.  He couldn’t imagine what this was like, submitting to an untested medical procedure without being able to see, hurt and vulnerable with so much riding on its success…  Steve gave up on looking anywhere and simply closed his useless eyes.  “Tony?”

“Little sting,” Tony said, and Bucky watched him stick a needle into Steve’s arm.  It was an IV of sorts, though the port wasn’t quite the same.  Bucky saw right away that it was drawing blood out of Steve rather than introducing anything into him.  Tony affixed the port with some surgical tape.  “This is going to analyze your blood in real time.  It’ll check for levels of uncorrupted serum and corrupted serum.”

“I thought you said the corrupted serum was all gone,” Bucky said tensely, watching as Tony prepared another, traditional IV for the other arm.

“It is,” Tony assured.  “Don’t worry.  That’s just a precaution.  We’re going to use a radiation signature similar to alien weaponry, the blueprint of the serum’s DNA signatures that we know, and the cradle’s regenerative energies to try and stimulate his DNA to repair itself.  Once the damage is reversed, the antidote to Delilah or whatever the hell Fury called it should automatically start working.  So, ideally, the corrupted serum levels stay flat and the new, healthy serum levels go up.”

This had all been explained a couple times.  Bucky nodded, watching Steve’s face carefully, searching for signs that he didn’t want to do this.  There weren’t any.  Steve was twitchy but steadfast.  “Sounds good,” he said.  “Whatever you think.”

Helen came over and looked down on him.  “We’ll start with a short, low-level energy infusion.”  The screens around the cradle came to life with data, Steve’s vitals and a few graphs of serum levels and read-outs from the table’s internal sensors and monitors.  “If that goes well, we’ll try more concentrated levels.”

“Okay,” Steve said.  The cradle’s arms swung upward with a whir.  A couple of the techs were tapping at the controls.  Machinery came to life, humming with building, imminent power.  Steve flinched at the sound of it all, but he stayed calm. 

Bucky had to admire that.  Just watching all of this made that low-level sense of panic sharper.  “Can I stay with him?” he asked the staff.

Compassionately, Helen frowned.  “I wish, but sadly no.  The radiation exposure should be well confined, but there’s no sense in taking the risk.”

That hurt like a bone out of its joint.  Steve shifted and tried to settle.  “I’ll be fine, Buck.  Don’t worry.”  That was the same nonsense from this morning.  “I can do it.”

“Definitely,” Tony said.  “And I really think it’ll work.  So hold on.  We’ll be in constant audio contact, and we can see everything, and Friday has failsafes built into the system to cut the power if things start to go wrong.  But they won’t.  There’s no reason to be scared, okay?”  He lifted his gaze from Steve to Bucky, and Bucky didn’t know why.  The conversation they’d had weeks ago, before everything had gone to hell, where Tony had told him that things concerning Steve’s welfare were really up to Bucky.  That it was _his_ call.  Was it his decision now?  Because he was thinking about what Bruce said, and as much as he wanted to cling to his hope, everything tasted sour with doubt.

But then Steve was reaching for him.  Without thinking Bucky came over and leaned down, putting his face right to Steve’s hand.  Steve relaxed completely with that.  The rest of the team including Tony backed off to give them a moment of privacy.  “You can do it, huh?” Bucky said.  He chuckled to hide how worried he was.  “Same old shit, Rogers.  You promising me you can take on the world and dragging me right along with you.”

Steve smiled feebly.  “Doin’ things my way.”

“Always are.”  Bucky leaned down and kissed him firmly.  “See you in a bit, okay?”

Steve nodded, sweeping his thumbs across Bucky’s cheeks and nose and lips.  “Yeah,” he whispered.  “Yeah.”

Bucky kissed him again before leaning back and turning away.  He walked out with everyone else, too afraid to hope.


	8. Chapter 8

It didn’t work.

Worse, it made Steve sick again.

Things started off okay enough.  From the other side of the observation windows in the lab, the team and Bucky watched as Tony and Doctor Cho began the procedure.  The cradle’s arms moved up and down the length of Steve’s body, head to toe in fact, showering him with red light from their lasers.  There was more than a dozen of them attached to each arm, and in effect they made a haze of diffuse crimson light above and around Steve’s body.  It looked a little like Steve was bathed in blood.

Bucky hadn’t cared for the image as he’d stood there, a hand over his chest where Steve’s dog tags and wedding ring were against his sternum.  Nervously he clenched and unclenched them through his shirt, watching as the team of scientists looked over the readings.  Bruce showed him the monitor displaying Steve’s vitals, knowing that’d be what he cared about, and he kept glancing between the steady numbers and the sight on the other side of the safety glass.  He hadn’t been able to see Steve’s face because of the machinery and how flat he’d been lying, but a couple video cameras were recording Steve’s head from different angles, so he could tell Steve was tense but alright.

And Steve had stayed alright, all through the preliminary tests.  His pulse, respiration rate, blood pressure, and neural activity all stayed well within normal bounds (well, normal given the stress of the situation).  The team had looked over the constant reports of their results and saw that, essentially, nothing was happening.  The readouts from the blood analysis had been steady, no corrupted serum but no new serum, either.  So this test had neither proved anything nor disproved that this could work.

Which had led the group (Tony in particular) to advocate for more power.  They’d increased the level of radiation, but nothing changed.  Steve’s vitals remained healthy, and his blood results were steadily at nothing, no sign of the serum (corrupted or uncorrupted) at all.  That was disappointing, so they’d upped the levels _again_.  The red haze around Steve became brighter, denser, as the arms worked the energy over his body.  Still, there’d been no result.

Tony was undaunted, though, insisting this wasn’t exactly an unpredicted outcome and that they should go higher and longer.  They’d had no idea of the amount, intensity, and duration of radiation needed, so it was impossible to know when they’d begin to see results.  The levels they were using were still far, far below the output of alien weapons.  They needed to stay the course, to give the procedure the opportunity to succeed.  The scientists weren’t certain, which had led to a rather intense discussion.  Tony had been vitriolic, rattled, emphatic and very clearly desperate.  Doctor Cho wasn’t so in favor of continuing, but she hadn’t raised much of an objection, obviously uncertain of what to do.  And Bruce had been very much on the other side of the fence, claiming that they were messing with something they _couldn’t_ predict and should therefore not push things further.

Bucky had tuned out the debate.  He’d kept his eyes on Steve’s vitals, on his body, on his face.  At that point, Steve had been in there for more than an hour.  He’d been getting more and more nervous, fidgeting, eyes roving, sweating.  A dozen times Bucky had checked in with him, calling over the PA system only to have Steve answer that he’d been okay, that he could keep going.  And he _had_ been okay.  His vitals were alright, and there’d been no indication of anything worrisome going on.  Tony had vehemently argued that that was evidence enough that they could continue, that Steve was physically stable and saying it was fine.  Bruce had looked to Bucky, demanded they look to Bucky, because Bucky was Steve’s husband, and faced with that choice, the same damn choice…

He’d made the same damn mistake and given them the go ahead.

Not that they could have known.  Not that _anyone_ could have known.  They’d increased the intensity of the radiation, and that step had been akin to opening the floodgates.  In the blink of an eye, the levels of corrupted serum in Steve’s blood had surged from nothing to a dangerous amount.  Alarms had wailed.  The team had panicked.  Friday had reacted faster than anyone, shutting everything down just as Tony had promised she would.  Still, the damage had been done.  Steve’s heart rate had increased drastically.  His blood pressure had, as well.  His breathing had become erratic, dangerously strained, and with the way his lungs were already compromised, respiratory arrest had definitely been a realistic possibility.

Thankfully, none of that had happened.  Tony had summoned Iron Man instantly and gone inside the room, where the radiation contamination had still been a threat, and administered emergency care for Steve.  He’d gotten him up like he’d weighed nothing and over to a nearby exam table.  Then, with Cho and Banner directing, it had been oxygen for his lungs and medications to try and deal with the tachycardia.  Steve had lost consciousness almost immediately, which had only added to everyone’s distress as they’d watched and waited for the situation to improve.  It had.  Once Tony had gotten his heartrate under control and his breathing in a better state, he’d begun decontamination protocols, and a few minutes later, the rest of the team had been able to come into the lab.

Now Steve was back in the medical ward, and Bucky was back to sitting at his bedside, which felt _so_ _fucking awful._   He watched Steve with deadened eyes, grief-stricken and disappointed and so damn _angry_ , as Steve slept.  He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness since the incident, which was six hours ago at this point.  No one was quite sure what had happened.  At least in that time that had passed, the amount of contaminated serum in his blood had decreased again.  Without any more of Project: Delilah to administer, there was no way to shut the serum down further, so they were completely reliant on this situation correcting itself.  It seemed to be.  Bruce was watching his blood like a hawk, and for a while it seemed like the corrupted serum was back again.  But then it had started to decrease, and everyone had took a breath.  The scare was over.

Thankfully, it seemed like it had only been that: a scare.  The doctors had checked Steve carefully and extensively.  There didn’t appear to be any lasting damage.  No new trauma.  His heartrate and blood pressure had settled back to normal states quickly.  His breathing had suffered the most, but with time and oxygen, he was doing alright.  His damaged lung hadn’t collapsed again, so that was a monumental relief.  He’d be okay.

_He’s okay._

That was what Steve had promised, what he kept promising.  Only Steve was in a hospital bed again, practically unconscious with an O2 mask over his face, computers beeping because they had to monitor his life signs anew out of fear that something else could hurt him.  Bucky wanted to think that _nothing_ should hurt him now or ever again.  But bad things kept happening, and the pain kept coming, and now Steve was facing a lifetime of loss.  After everything, the serum and the war and becoming Captain America and the freeze and the Avengers and finding each other again, Steve was back to being the way he had been: weak and vulnerable.  Sick.  _Broken._

Bucky shivered through a clenched sob, holding Steve’s limp hand in his hand, stroking his metal fingers over Steve’s knuckles.  It wasn’t fair.  Steve had never deserved all the ailments he’d suffered in his youth, not the scoliosis or the asthma or bad infections or chronic ear aches or _any_ of that.  He didn’t deserve this now.  Why?  What the fuck had they done to warrant being hurt like this?  To have God or fate or whatever powers that were dangle peace and happiness and fulfillment in front of them only to yank it away so suddenly and so cruelly?  After so much suffering, Steve’s and his both, _how_ could this have happened?

“Bucky.”

Bucky had been lost in his thoughts, in his fury and sorrow, so the soft call startled him.  He swallowed through a dry throat and saw he’d been squeezing Steve’s hand too hard.  Maybe that had been what had pulled Steve from his sleep.  Maybe it had been the soft crying he’d been hearing and only now realized had to be coming from him.  Maybe Steve just _felt_ it.  They’d always been so in tune with each other, from when they’d been boys on the streets of Brooklyn and all through the war and again on the HYDRA helicarrier as the world had been falling down.  That hadn’t changed, at least.  Steve and Bucky.  Bucky and Steve.  Joined by hand and heart and soul.

Steve’s thumb swept over his where their hands were intertwined now.  Weakly he reached up his other hand to try and move the oxygen mask.  “Leave it, Stevie,” Bucky softly ordered, hating how thick with emotion his voice sounded.

Steve stopped fumbling at his face.  He blinked lazily, but of course his eyes didn’t focus.  “What happened?”  An uncomfortable moment slipped away.  Bucky exhaled slowly, trying to find some strength.  He couldn’t manage it.  Steve went on.  “It didn’t work, did it.”

Bucky looked up at his husband.  His eyes were so blue, empty but so damn _bright_ in the afternoon sun.  He asked himself the same stupid question that had no answer.  How could something so familiar be so different, so wrong?  “No,” Bucky said, dropping his gaze again.  “It didn’t work.”

It was still.  Now Bucky couldn’t make himself raise his gaze, couldn’t stand to see the grief and regret and disappointment on Steve’s face.  Couldn’t stand to see hope die.  He’d been watching it all afternoon, watching it Thor’s tense frown and Clint’s angry scowl and Wanda’s teary eyes.  He’d heard it in Sam’s angry words and Natasha’s sad silence and Vision’s calm questions.  He’d _felt_ it in Bruce’s tentative hand on his shoulder and in dark, angry waves radiating from Tony’s body.  He didn’t think he could bear to see it or hear it or feel it from Steve.  He didn’t think he could explain it, how they’d screwed up again and unleashed the poison trapped in Steve’s body, so he prayed Steve wouldn’t ask.

_I’m such a fucking coward._

Steve didn’t ask.  He didn’t say anything for a while, and during that time, Bucky finally found the courage to look up again.  Steve’s eyes were wet, and his face was strained, and he was looking up at the ceiling like he was trying his damnedest not to cry.  _Jesus._   “Steve,” Bucky whispered, finally rising from the chair to lean over Steve.  “Stevie…”

“’m okay,” Steve gasped.  Now he did push the mask away, wiping at his face, at his tears, with a shaking hand.  “I’m okay.  I’ll be okay.”

Bucky frowned.  He ran his hand through Steve’s hair.  It was longer now, long enough to be a spiky mess.  Feverishly he kissed Steve’s forehead.  “I know, love,” he gasped.  “I know.”

Time lost meaning as they stayed that way, Bucky caressing Steve’s hair, Steve holding his hand between them.  As much as everything hurt (and it did hurt so very _much_ ), Steve was right.  He was okay.  He was, and therefore Bucky was, too.  Things could have turned out so terribly, both this time and when Steve had first been wounded, but they hadn’t.  That was something to hold onto.  And as long as they had something to hold onto, they couldn’t let go.

Bucky pressed his lips to Steve’s forehead, cupping his cheeks.  He let them drift downward, across Steve’s lightly fluttering eyelids, over his nose, to take his lips in a grateful kiss.  It went on, this tender connection between them, unbreakable and beautiful amidst so much misery.

“Bucky?”

Bucky pulled away and turned to the door.  Bruce was there.  He sheepishly averted his eyes, obviously very much aware of how he was intruding.  “Can we talk?”

Bucky didn’t want to.  He was too worn, too tired, too battered.  He nodded all the same, placing the oxygen mask back on Steve’s face before promising to return right away.  Steve let him go, eyes closing again, as he took a few deep breaths and immediately settled back down.

Bruce led him out into the hall and then down a bit toward one of the empty exam rooms so they could speak in private.  Doctor Cho was waiting there, and she looked forlorn and remorseful.  “Sergeant Barnes, I’m so very sorry.  I – I don’t know…”  She shook her head, flustered and clearly desperate to say something to make this better.  “I don’t know what happened.  I can’t explain why the cradle’s energy would stimulate new serum production, particularly since it should be blocked by SHIELD’s bioagent.  It should have focused on the damaged DNA instead.  We thought to check for this outcome just to be safe, but it should _not_ have been possible, and I don’t–”

“It’s alright,” Bucky said.  It wasn’t, not really, but the poor woman looked about ready to hyperventilate.  He summoned some strength.  “You did warn us that there were a lot of unknowns involved.  Guess this was one of them.”  He caught Bruce’s sad frown.  “So there’s no chance of it working?”

Helen seemed like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t.  “I don’t think so,” she finally conceded.  Bucky gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.  It wasn’t like that was unexpected, but, again, hearing the truth was like a knife going into his back, into his chest, stabbing between his ribs.  He took a deep breath through his nose to calm himself.  “At least not with the way we have things set up.  It’s possible we’d need a great deal more of the radiation to stimulate the sort of healing we wanted to see, but it’s pretty obvious that would be lethal to Captain Rogers.  Even if it wouldn’t cause more production of corrupted serum, it would most certainly begin to produce the same cellular destruction that killed the people in New York City during the attack.”

 _So that’s that._ Dead chances.  Dead hopes.  More dead dreams.  His pain must have shown on his face because Helen immediately jumped into explaining more.  “But we did gather a great deal of data from the radiation infusions we completed.  We’ll start looking it over right away.  There might be a way to get around the problems.  We just need to figure it out.”

That was starting to become the go-to phrase, the empty promise.  “What about using the cradle to heal him?  Leaving the serum the way it is but helping with his leg or his…”  Bucky couldn’t finish.  He knew he was asking for the impossible.

Neither Bruce nor Cho had the heart to tell him that outright, though.  They shared a look that spoke volumes.  “We’ll work on that, too,” Helen promised.  “But the cradle’s technology isn’t refined or powerful enough at this point to regenerate nerves.  We might have some success with his leg, but the damage to his optic nerve…”  She didn’t finish, and that melancholic expression became even sadder.  “Plus right now I can’t even say for sure the cradle’s energy signatures aren’t what reacted with the damaged serum or the bioagent.  I’m assuming it was the alien radiation, but that’s just speculation on my part.  We need to do more research.”

 _More research._   “It’ll take time, Bucky,” Bruce declared.  “Unfortunately.  With the situation as unpredictable as it is, we have to be sure what we’re doing is safe.  That should be the lesson here, if nothing else.”

If nothing else.  There _was_ nothing else.  Bucky felt his control over his emotions eroding more.  The conversation went on, both scientists swearing more oaths, pledging to work tirelessly on this problem.  Bucky didn’t really listen.  The next thing he knew they were going off together, and he was alone in the empty, silent exam room, aching inside, breathing hard, and everything was spinning and he wanted to scream again, scream as loud and hard as he could, and he wanted to be numb, wanted to be dead inside, wanted to forget, wanted the _fucking chair…_

_No._

Bucky gasped.  He refused to go down into that darkness.  He _refused._   He owed Steve more, owed him everything, and he wasn’t going to betray him like that.  So he stood there a bit longer, wiping at his eyes, pushing his hair behind ears, breathing slower and deeper until he felt like he was in control.  Then he headed back to Steve’s room.  When he got there, he found the door was nearly closed.  He didn’t remember leaving it like that.  He paused, caught the sound of Steve’s soft voice, before going inside.

Tony was there in the chair in which he’d been sitting.  The second he heard the sound of glass sliding door, he was up like he’d been jolted by lightning.  His wide eyes met Bucky’s for a moment, and then he sharply looked away.  “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head.  “I didn’t mean to take your spot.”

 _You could never._ That ugly, bitter thought came slashing through Bucky’s head.  He didn’t say anything, though.  He just stared at Stark, stared and tried not to feel.  He knew what emotions would come if he let himself acknowledge them.

Steve seemed to recognize the tension in the room, even if he couldn’t see his husband and his best friend motionless and stiff and miserable.  “Tony, it’s okay.  It’s okay.  You don’t have to go.”  Weakly he reached out a hand to him.  “I’m okay.”

It didn’t take much more than that to have Tony coming back to the bed.  He made a point not to look at Bucky, though, as he rushed to Steve’s side and took his hand.  Hunched over the side of the bed, he held it between his own.  A choked, garbled sob burst through his lips.  “Christ, Steve…  I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry!”  For a moment, Bucky wondered for what the other man was apologizing, if he was finally acknowledging the role he’d played in the decision to use SHIELD’s bioweapon in the first place.  Not that that was Stark’s fault.  Not that this was anyone’s fault.  But there was a load of unspoken pain wrapped up in it all, that fucking things that no one was saying about blame and guilt and culpability, and Bucky really wanted Tony to just _say_ them.

He didn’t.  “I should’ve realized the cradle wasn’t going to…  I mean, fuck, I looked over and over the data, went over the theories, and I didn’t see – no, I didn’t _let_ myself see that it could… that…”  Tony didn’t finish, breathing heavily.  Bucky was trying not to watch, but he couldn’t help himself.  “This is my fault.”

“It’s not,” Steve replied.  “You did the best you could.”

“My best shouldn’t end up with you in the hospital!” Tony gritted out.  “Fuck!  I wanted it to work more than anything, and you paid the price.  You fucking paid the price.”  Tony’s voice was so rough, so twisted.  It pained Bucky to see this, to see him suffering so much under the weight of his guilt and the pressure of fixing the problem.  But he himself was too hurt and angry to do or say anything to make it right for him.

Steve was a far better man than he was.  Always had been.  He was exhausted and sore, but he rolled over in the hospital bed just enough to get his other hand around Tony’s.  “You’re doing everything you can.  I know you are.”

Tony sniffled.  “Steve–”

“And I’m fine.  Really.  Nothing bad happened.  Sure, it’s a setback.  Setbacks don’t mean anything other than you need to get up and keep going, right?”

 _God, Steve._   Bucky couldn’t bear to hear that.  He closed his eyes against the fresh burn of tears – how many _fucking_ times had he done that over the past couple weeks? – and turned away.  It seemed Steve’s words upset Tony just as much.  “How can you say that?” he gasped.  “How can you…  How can you be so _okay_ with this?  You don’t have to be!”

“Yeah, I do,” Steve insisted softly.

“You shouldn’t be!” Tony hissed, shaking so hard it seemed he might actually shake apart.  “You shouldn’t be.”

“I can’t let this change who I am.  And I’m your friend, Tony.”  Now Steve’s voice broke a little.  He smiled beneath the oxygen mask.  “I love you like my brother.”  Tony choked on another sob, shaking, hunching over where their hands were locked together.  “None of this is your fault.  And I know you’re tryin’.  I know you’ll figure it out.  You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.  You’ll figure it out.  Your best is gonna be enough.”

“I know,” Tony whispered.  He took a deep breath, relaxing a bit and gathering himself as if hearing Steve still loved him and trusted him and had faith in him had restored him.  It probably had.  Bucky knew from experience during those long, awful months where he’d been recovering from what HYDRA had done to him that Steve’s faith could be a very powerful thing.  “I will.  I’m not giving up.”  He sniffled, wiping roughly at his face.  “I swear to you, Steve, I am going to make this right.  I know I can.  I know–”

“Boss, there’s a priority call coming in from Director Fury.”  Friday’s sudden announcement had Bucky jolting and Tony looking up, alarmed.  “He’s requesting you have the Avengers assemble.”

Somehow, with everything that had gone on, with the implications of what had happened right in front of them this whole time, _no one_ had seen this coming.  It hadn’t been mentioned, hadn’t been discussed or debated, hadn’t even been acknowledged.  Inside the complex, everything had been swept up in this storm of Steve’s situation, consumed and reduced to it, but outside, life was continuing.  The world was moving on.

And the world needed the Avengers.

“I have to go,” Tony softly declared, dazed and horrified.  That only lasted a blink, and then he was standing and moving away.  “I have to go!”

Steve’s next breath was a tense gasp.  His eyes were wild, searching but of course not finding.  He reached out blindly, leaning up with a wince and a cry.  “Tony!”  Tony stopped and turned back as Steve scrambled, gripping his arms and pulling him close.  “God, be careful.  Please be careful!”

Tony hugged Steve tightly, wrapped his arms around him.  Bucky watched Steve’s fingers curl in the back of Tony’s t-shirt, desperately and protectively.  Then Tony pulled away.  His cheeks glistened wetly as he rushed by Bucky, and without another word, he was gone.

Steve was shaking in the bed.  He was trembling quite hard, and for the first time in days, he looked absolutely ready to fall apart.  His fingers had gone from clutching Tony to grabbing the bedding.  The monitors beeped louder and faster as he gave a frustrated cry, as he pulled the mask off and tried to move.  Tried to swing his legs out of the bed.  Tried to stand.

Bucky rushed over.  “Steve, what the hell are you doing?”

Steve grunted, squirming and fighting.  “You should go,” he gritted out.  He gripped the bedrail, and his whole body quaked as he struggled to move his bad leg.  Sweat broke out all over him.  “Goddamn it.  Fuck.  I–”

Bucky grabbed his hands, pulling them away and blocking him from getting out of the bed.  “You can’t get up,” he said tersely.  “You heard what the doctors said, what Bruce said.  They want you calm and quiet until all of that poison is back out of your system.”  Not to mention the fact that Steve was way too weak to even contemplate engaging in any sort of strenuous activity.  And not to mention that he _couldn’t_ , couldn’t walk on his own, couldn’t _see_.  “Steve–”

“Go with them,” Steve gasped again.  “Bucky, they need help.”

“They don’t need me.  You do.”

Steve shook his head.  “Bucky–”

“The team’s been around way longer without me in it.  They’ll manage, Steve.”

That only made Steve more frantic.  “No!  You need to go!  You’re an Avenger!”

“Not right now.  I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky replied calmly instead, “and neither are you.”

For a moment, it seemed Steve hadn’t heard him and was going to continue with this nonsense.  He was clearly completely exhausted and in pain but rigid with frustration, and Bucky knew him well enough to see how frantically he wanted to help, how much he needed to, how hard he was hating himself right now.  It killed Bucky.  It killed them both.  “Steve, stop.  Stop.  Come on.  Stop!”

It took a moment more of useless, futile wriggling, but finally Steve did stop.  He settled back down but not because he wanted to.  All the fight was simply gone from him.  He sobbed, sinking into the pillows, panting and wheezing frenetically.  “I can’t do this,” he moaned, his face red and his eyes glazed with more than the blindness.  He was on the verge of a panic attack.  “God Almighty…  I can’t…”

Bucky hushed him.  He lowered the bedrail and gently moved Steve over before climbing into the bed beside him.  Even with Steve smaller than he had been, they were still two large, grown men, and the hospital bed was tiny, so it was a really tight fit.  Bucky didn’t give a damn.  He pulled Steve close, pulled him into his arms and against his chest.  Fumbling for the oxygen mask, he got that back over Steve’s face.  “Deep breaths,” he softly ordered.  “Come on, love.  Please.  Deep breaths.”  God, this took him back to when they were kids, to one of so many times where he’d held Steve and guided him through an asthma attack or a coughing fit.  Where he’d begged him to breathe, set a pace he could follow, prayed for him to stay calm and try.  These weren’t pleasant memories, and to see it happening again…  “Come on, Steve.  Breathe for me.”

Steve coughed and resisted a moment more, but he didn’t have the energy to fight much.  After a few reedy, whistling breaths, he simply did as he was asked.  Bucky held the mask there, rubbing his other hand up and down Steve’s shivering back.  Eventually Steve succumbed to the warmth and comfort of Bucky’s embrace and relaxed the rest of the way.  Bucky cupped the back of his head, tucking it into the crook of his neck.  There was wetness there, many tears, and Bucky sighed, battling more tears of his own.  “It’s alright.”

Steve didn’t answer.  He simply breathed and held on, and Bucky held on, too, and again the extent of what they’d lost was there before them, harsh and undeniable.  This time, though, as the Avengers left to fight without Captain America, this time this looming, new life was so much clearer, so much sharper.

And this time it hurt so much more.

* * *

As badly as the day had gone so far, it somehow managed to get even worse.

The Avengers were deployed to Myanmar to handle a terrorist attack in Yangon.  This event had come without much warning, taking SHIELD, the UN, and Myanmar’s government completely by surprise.   A mad scientist, one of HYDRA’s lingering threats it seemed, and his group of lackeys was holding the city ransom.  They were threatening to douse the metropolitan area in some sort of aerosolized bioweapon.  Considering the large population and the city’s lack of infrastructure, it was a mass casualty situation, one that needed to be handled immediately and with extreme caution.  Still, in terms of the sorts of incidents with which the Avengers normally dealt, this wasn’t all that unusual.

But this mission was so new and different and wrong because the Avengers had to operate without Captain America guiding them.  They had to get the job done without Steve calling the shots, without him making the tough decisions, without their captain coming up with the tactical plan and seeing it executed to perfection.  That would be hard enough to do while just dealing with emotional implications of the loss of a friend and brother, but not having their leader struck hard and hit them at home on the battlefield.  It was obvious from the get-go that there was a gaping hole in the Avengers’ infrastructure, that no one felt comfortable or capable taking up the position Steve normally held.  No one wanted to give orders.  No one wanted to take control.  Perhaps that role should have naturally fallen to Iron Man with his place as team benefactor and Captain America’s unofficial second in command, but Stark didn’t take it, at least not with finality or grace or acceptance from the others.  Therefore, there was effectively no commander at all.

And that led to chaos.  The situation was complicated, with numerous enemy cells located throughout the city and each poised to launch drones bearing huge reservoirs of the bioweapon.  The team had to split to deal with all of them simultaneously.  The terrorists were also well armed with pilfered SHIELD weapons and stolen Chitauri tech, so they were tormenting the civilians around them which made for a pressing need to protect the innocents caught in the crossfire.  Then, of course, the evacuation was creating further chaos.  The whole thing was a mess, with Tony, Sam, and Vision in the air and Clint, Natasha, and Wanda on the ground.  Thor was everywhere, trying to do everything at once.  The whole team was.  The wild, haphazard conversation over comms was indicative of the level of miscommunication, confusion, and pandemonium.  Without a clear leader, the team could barely function.  They were so accustomed to Steve’s quick orders and immediate grasp on things that not having him was like a gaping wound gushing blood.  Not since the dark days right after the Battle of New York when everything had been tense and new and strained among them had there been so much discord.

Thankfully, back at the complex, Steve slept through it.  Between the procedure with the cradle going wrong and his injuries, he passed out in Bucky’s arms not long after Tony had rushed out.  Bucky left him there, covering him in the blanket before slipping down the hallway to one of the conference rooms in the medical ward.  There he’d asked Friday to keep an eye on Steve and to stream footage of the battle on the room’s massive computer screen.  He could have gone down to the command center and stood with Maria Hill and the SHIELD support staff overseeing the battle.  It would have been more informative.

He didn’t think he could stand to deal with anyone else right then, though.  The sound of the team falling apart was devastating.  Bucky felt sick to his stomach as he watched the battle through Iron Man’s HUD, through Tony’s point of view, and saw the panic and desperation and craziness.  He could hear the team shouting to each other.  They _never_ shouted to each other like this, not unless the situation was well beyond control, and even then, Steve had always been there to keep everyone calm and focused.  Now there was nothing but yelling, demands and last-minute warnings and swearing and fearful misunderstandings.  No friendly banter.  No confident orders and equally confident replies.  No snark or teasing or jokes.  It was, in short, a disaster, and Bucky could hardly stand to listen.

He had to, though.  He knew how desperately Steve wanted to be there, how much he cared about the team and its success and the innocents they were sworn to protect.  How scared Steve was about something else going wrong.  Bucky was scared, too.  He’d listen for Steve’s sake.  He’d listen and watch as the Avengers flailed and floundered with one close-call coming right after another.  For a while, it seemed like they couldn’t coordinate taking out the cells, couldn’t spread their resources adequately to handle the multi-pronged threat.  It seemed sadly that the Avengers couldn’t handle this.

But they did.  Just as it seemed everything was crashing down, they got it together.  Tony and Sam stopped arguing, and Sam went with Tony’s plan.  Clint and Natasha got the civilians out of the way; they’d fared the best of the group, so used to working with each other and with little support as SHIELD agents.  With Vision’s help, Wanda got to the guys controlling most of the drones and promptly shut them down.  One launched, though, and for a horrific stretch of seconds, it seemed like the terrorists would win.  Before it could drop its payload, though, Tony broke free from the battle in which he’d been engaged and rocketed toward the drone high up over the city and forcibly carried it out to sea where he destroyed it.

_Thank God._

Still, despite the victory, the damage was done.  Not physical damage so much, and the Stark Relief Foundation was already on site helping with humanitarian and relief efforts.  There hadn’t been any casualties, either, which was a serious godsend.  But the media had caught sight of the team’s disjointedness and, of course, the fact that Captain America wasn’t with them.  In a matter of minutes after the situation had been contained, images of the team fighting without Steve, of the confusion they’d caused, of Iron Man getting overwhelmed and civilians getting brought out of a damaged building and nearly into a firefight and the drone being launched with the team scrambling to stop it…  It was everywhere, all over the world, and people were scared again.

Bucky couldn’t think about it.  The team was safe and on its way back to New York.  That was enough for now, all things considered.  While Steve was sleeping, he ate quickly and then went to give Bruce more blood.  Bruce hadn’t gone with, hadn’t even offered like he was too scared to unleash the Hulk without Steve there to command the beast.  The Hulk always listened to Steve.  It was sadly clear he wasn’t certain he’d listen to anyone else.  As it turned out, he was also ignoring the PR mess, the rampant questions spreading through Twitter and Facebook, the news networks that were already buzzing with frantic coverage.  Banner was instead intent on his plan to derive some sort of cure (or at least hint about what to do) from Bucky’s version of the serum.  The more blood he had to work with, the better, and Bucky was glad to give it.  It was something useful he could do at least.

After that, Bruce returned to medical ward with Bucky to check on Steve.  Steve was still sleeping, which was good.  He certainly needed it.  Bruce looked over his vitals and was pleased with how strong and steady they were.  There were no additional aberrations in Steve’s breathing, which was a relief.  Plus the corrupted serum was nearly out of his blood again.  Twelve hours after the failed procedure in the cradle, the damage had been almost completely flushed out.  There wouldn’t be any permanent complications, at least not from this.  It was just a minor setback, as Steve had said.  That was the only good news today.

Considering that morning they’d been expecting a cure, the fact that they’d ended up only slightly worse off than how they’d started was probably a fucking miracle.

At any rate, there was no reason Steve needed to stay in medical.  Thus, with some help from the staff, Bucky got Steve back to their suite a little later that evening.  Steve slept through that, which was nice, but he came around when Bucky lifted him from the gurney back to their bed.  He immediately asked about the team and the mission.  Bucky smiled and promised him things went well, that the team had taken care of the threat and no one was hurt.  Steve digested that with a slow nod.  His mood turned quiet, a bit sullen and detached, but he didn’t want to retire for the day yet, which made sense given the length of the nap he’d just taken.  That was fine.  Bucky waved the medical staff off and ordered Steve up some dinner.  While they waited, Bucky got Steve standing.  He was unsteady, grimacing with any weight at all on his bad leg, but that didn’t dissuade him from slowly limping to the bathroom with Bucky’s help.  Steve looked like he needed to do this, to have some of his own independence back even as limited as it was.  Bucky mentioned once he could use the wheelchair, but he refused.  He also refused Bucky’s help in the bathroom, claiming he could manage the toilet and wash up himself.  Hesitantly Bucky agreed, but he didn’t leave.  He wasn’t sure if Steve expected him to.

Steve did alright for himself.  Bucky didn’t rush him, silently allowing him to fumble and limp and very slowly handle his own needs.  More than once he thought he should intervene, but he made himself wait, and Steve eventually finished.  Then they went back to the living area.  In the time they’d taken, dinner had arrived.

And so had Sam and Thor.  Sam was banged up, scraped and bruised but otherwise alright.  He looked freshly showered, dressed in a purple t-shirt and clean jeans.  Thor was untouched, of course.  It took a truly nasty fight for him to get so much as dinged.  His blond hair was loose from its normal pony tail, and he was still wearing his battle armor.  His hammer was clenched in his right hand.  “We have returned,” he declared, like that wasn’t obvious.

Well, it wouldn’t be obvious to Steve, who immediately perked up from where he was leaning heavily onto Bucky.  “Thor?” he called.  He took a step forward, and Bucky let him go.  His hands were up and out, searching.  He made it another stumbling step before his bad leg crumpled completely.

All three other men lurched forward to get him, but Thor was closest and fastest.  He caught Steve before he’d even fully stumbled.  Mjölnir thudded to the floor.  Steve shuddered, closing his eyes and leaning into Thor’s chest.  “Thank God,” he whispered.  “Thank God.”

Before all this, Thor and Steve had been somewhat similar, big and brawny and muscular.  Steve was about the only person who could hold his own in size and stature with the demigod.  Now Thor’s arms positively swallowed him whole, and Steve looked small and weak in his embrace.  “All is well,” Thor rumbled, rubbing Steve’s back.  “I swear to you, my brother.  All is well.”

Steve barked a rough sob.  It was pretty obvious all the strength that had been sustaining him through the evening so far was gone.  The pain and fear he’d been feeling at the team fighting without him was coming out now, and Thor let him work through it a moment, saying nothing, simply holding him firm and allowing him the chance to cry.

And Steve should have taken it, but he didn’t.  Not really.  After a few quiet, tremulous seconds, he leaned back from Thor’s shoulder, looking around wildly.  “Is everyone okay?” he asked, clearly searching for confirmation.  Bucky had told him so earlier, but he didn’t begrudge him wanting more now.  With the world so twisted and upside down, he could have whatever he damn well pleased.  “Who else is here?”

“Me, Steve,” Sam said quietly.  He sounded like he wanted to be more energetic and comforting but this was all he could manage.  “Right behind Thor.”  He reached out and put a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Sam,” Steve said on a quivering breath, grasping that hand and pulling his way to Sam.  He was staring right at him but not seeing him, and Sam’s eyes filled with grief.  “Sam, you okay?”

Sam smiled faintly, gently pulling Steve into a hug.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m fine.  Everyone’s fine.”

“No one is injured.  There was no loss of life,” Thor reported, “and we dispensed with the evil.”

Now Steve really smiled, a huge, happy smile.  His relief was practically palpable.  “Great.  Wonderful.  And it went okay?”

Thor and Sam shared a look with each other and then a look with Bucky.  Bucky sighed softly and gave a tiny shake of his head.  “Everything went fine,” Sam said.  “We handled it.”

“Tony took the lead?” Steve asked.  “Tony took over?”

Again Sam met Bucky’s gaze, obviously looking for direction, for at least some indication about how much Steve knew.  The tension was rough and awful, and it was just luck Steve didn’t notice it.  Thor sighed.  “Eat, and Sam will tell you all about it,” he said, pushing the cart full of food forward.

Steve nodded, and Sam helped him limp over to the kitchenette.  After a few minutes, they had him seated at the table (well, somewhat slouched at the table – it didn’t seem like he could handle this at first, but Steve being Steve soldiered on and forced himself to appear more capable than he physically was.  Apparently the team coming home well had restored his sense of confidence quite a bit).  Sam put a plate of roast and potatoes in front of him from the tray before getting one for himself.  He went through the clockface description, and Steve listened before carefully reaching for his glass of milk.  Sam watched him eat a moment, and then softly started talking.  He was trying to keep the mood light, neither launching into the problems the team had encountered nor discussing the obvious impact Steve’s absence had had.  Bucky listened for a moment, uncomfortable with this whole thing, before Thor grasped his shoulder.  “Might I have a word?”

Bucky turned back to Steve a moment more.  Sam was telling some sort of joke, and Steve was smiling around a mouthful of food.  Even as tired and haggard as he was, he seemed so much better.  He was fine. “Yeah,” Bucky breathed.  “Sure.”  He followed Thor back out into the main living area.

The sun had set a while ago, and the final light of day was rapidly fading.  In the twilight, the green lawn around the Avengers complex stretched away toward the woods, dull and wet.  Thick clouds were quickly rolling across the sky.  Obviously it had rained again sometime that afternoon.  Bucky hadn’t even known it.  It seemed like it was always raining.  “What is it?” he asked Thor, looking away from the grounds.

Thor sighed and closed his eyes.  He seemed hesitant and very burdened.  Bucky could count on one hand the number of times he’d ever spoken alone with the demigod.  Thor was close with Steve.  They were _all_ close with Steve, but that closeness didn’t extend to Bucky.  Frankly, despite his gregarious nature, Thor always seemed distant and intimidating to some extent, someone with which Bucky had very little in common.  Not like Steve did.  In fact, aside from the whole strange man in a strange world aspect they’d shared from the get-go, Thor and Steve could also commiserate on the dubious honor of having a loved one go bad.  That served to further amplify Bucky’s discomfort.

Thor was the one who looked uncomfortable now.  He started pacing, tapping his hammer into his other palm.  “The battle did not go well,” he said disdainfully.

Bucky swallowed through a dry throat, not sure where this was going.  “I know.  I watched it.”

Thor caught his gaze a moment, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, before looking back to his boots where he was stepping hard enough to grind holes into the carpet.  “I cannot explain what happened,” he began, shaking his head.  “We are seasoned warriors.  All of us.  We have vast experience contending with these sorts of situations.  We _know_ how to fight alongside each other.  There was no reason – no good _reason_ – that we should have struggled so!”

“You know the reason,” Bucky softly said.  “We all do.”

Thor turned to him again.  His angry expression softened somewhat.  “I know,” he conceded.  “I suppose I…  I prayed it wouldn’t hurt as badly as it did.  I believe we were strong enough to rise above it, to be like he is and overcome our grief.”

Bucky could have offered up some useless, bullshit platitudes.  _It takes time.  Healing is a process.  It’s alright to fall down as long as we get back up.  It’s just a setback._   That last thought made sharp shame stab through Bucky’s gut, and he winced.  “I’m not sure Steve’s overcome anything.”

That gave Thor pause.  He stopped pacing, and the ire on his face disappeared.  Maybe he hadn’t realized the truth, that Steve probably hadn’t processed a damn thing thus far, hadn’t accepted anything.  Hadn’t moved on, let alone begun to heal.  That incident in the hospital room when Tony had left was plain evidence of that, as well as Steve’s handling of the occupational therapists and his so far rigid inhibitions concerning letting his emotions out.  Obviously his brave face had convinced Thor, maybe most of the others, but it wasn’t convincing Bucky.  Not that Bucky blamed him in the least.

After a moment, Thor sighed.  “Nor should he have to,” he said quietly.  “This is a misery that should never have come to him.  Of course injury happens in war; it is an ever-present threat in the lives we lead.  I can accept that.  What I cannot accept is the choices that were made that have made things so much worse.”

Bucky flinched.  _The choices._   He was pretty sure Thor meant the ones Tony had championed, the ones Bruce had suggested, the ones _science_ had created for them, but those weren’t the only decisions to blame.  It had been Bucky’s decision to do what Tony had suggested, as Steve’s legal medical proxy.  It had been _his choice._   In the end, Tony and Bruce and all the doctors and researchers involved had only offered opinions.  Bucky had been the one to use that information.  Bucky had been the one to tell them to administer Delilah.

So, in essence, Steve’s disabilities were Bucky’s fault.

That truth had been slinking about the back of his mind for days, _every day_ since Steve had been hurt, but it was so black and damning that Bucky hadn’t been able to acknowledge it.  He couldn’t bear to now, either.  He was such a fucking coward.  All through his own rescue and recovery, Steve’s decisions had saved and restored him.  Bucky’s decisions through this so far had _destroyed_ Steve.

Thor sighed again, pulling him from his thoughts.  “I am returning to Asgard,” he announced.  “I would like your permission to speak to our healers on Steve’s behalf.”

Bucky blinked away the stinging of tears, surprised.  “What?”

“Asgardian medicine is significantly more advanced than what you have on earth.  Normally it is forbidden to outsiders, and with the isolationist mood of our court of late it is likely that will continue to be so.  Still, I believe Steve is worthy of our care.  No one is worthier than he is, in fact.  I will try to make my father and our leaders see that truth.”

The concept of fresh hope was too painful yet all too alluring.  “You think they can help him?”

Thor cocked his head a bit.  “The eir are ancient and powerful.  They have little experience with Midgardian physiology, though, even physiology as enhanced as Steve’s.  I can’t speak to the likelihood of their success in treating him.”  He came closer and laid a huge hand to Bucky’s metal shoulder.  “I can only speak to the fact that I must try.  It is what I can do while the doctors and Banner and Stark work here.  No option should be ignored.  I owe Steve that much.”

Bucky had no idea what an eir was.  He knew nothing about Asgard, about the politics there, about the opposition Thor might face.  It didn’t matter.  The mere fact that there could be another chance, no matter how remote, was incredible, and his heart latched onto it immediately.  “Thank you.”

Thor smiled sadly.  “Today was a testament to how we need Steve both as our captain and as our friend.  I must do this for his sake and for our own.  Without him, we will suffer.”

Those thoughts stayed with Bucky long after Thor left, long after Sam left, and long after Steve was asleep again in their bed.  Bucky watched the shadows play across his husband as he slumbered.  After dinner and after being assured everything had gone so well, Steve had gone down fairly easily.  It was clear his worries had abated and he was ending this hellacious day on a fairly decent note.  That was damn fortunate, considering he was the only one who felt at all good.  It was also extremely sad, considering he only felt that way because he hadn’t been told the whole truth.  It was pretty obvious Sam had sugar-coated the worst of how the team had nearly botched their first mission without Captain America.  Bucky didn’t think he’d outright lie, but he definitely believed that Sam might have spun things positively to spare Steve any additional pain.  He himself hadn’t been entirely honest with Steve, not even about how much the cradle procedure had failed and how unlikely it seemed that it would ever work.  A white lie was still a fucking lie, no matter how well-intentioned.  Some hero he was.  Some protector.  Some husband.

At any rate, Steve was comfortable and sleeping deeply.  The wind that had blown the rain through was still persisting, clearing some of the clouds so that the moonlight could push through their wispy outlines.  The soft illumination danced over Steve’s body, over his swollen leg where it was propped on pillows as it normally was, over his slowly rising and falling chest, over his peaceful face.  In the silence, only the soft brush of the breeze against the window panes and Steve’s shallow but mostly even breathing could be heard.  Tears trickled down Bucky’s face.  He stayed silent as he cried, as the constant stream of them came and came.  It was so damn painful, to stand there and watch Steve and know all this darkness was stretched around them but not being able to find their way out.

Steve had always found their way out.  _Always._

With a heavy sigh, Bucky walked out of their bedroom.  He didn’t think he could sleep, not when he was feeling this low and raw.  And he was so fucking tired too, which made the mess of thoughts in his head all that much worse.  It all throbbed, ached, and he could hardly endure it.  Alone in the darkened living room, he considered finding something to watch on television for a bit or making some coffee or reading or basically _anything_ that would fill the deep void inside into which everything felt to be sinking, but Friday’s soft voice abruptly pierced the deep emptiness.  “Sergeant Barnes, I realize it is late, but Director Fury is here.  He would like to enter.”

Bucky squinted in confusion, tired enough that he thought for a moment he’d heard wrong.  The AI was right; it _was_ late, well passed eleven o’clock.  What the hell was Fury doing here and at this hour?  “Um…  Okay?  I guess.”

A moment later (during which Bucky barely remembered to wipe his wet checks and try to smooth his hair), the front doors of their suite opened.  Fury stepped through.  Friday automatically increased the lighting in the room to something soft and dim.  Bucky hadn’t seen Fury since the day they’d shut down the serum using his ill-gotten bioagent.  The leader of SHIELD looked as he normally did: tall, strong, and imposing, dressed in black with the eye patch over his ruined eye.  He was as calm and confident as ever, like it was normal to be visiting an ex-HYDRA assassin and his super soldier husband in the middle of the night.  “Barnes,” he greeted, closing the doors behind him.

Bucky shook his head, not wanting to bother with bullshit.  “What are you doing here?”

Fury clasped his hands behind his back.  “I have a… _matter_ to discuss.”

“Yeah, well, the others are gone already,” Bucky said.  He never dealt with Fury much.  Frankly, despite all the guy had done for them and all the times he’d heard Steve and the rest of the team talk about him, he put Bucky ill at ease.  Was he a superior officer?  Did Bucky need to address him with deference like that?  Steve did sometimes, but then Steve called him by his first name, too.  He was too confused to figure it out right then, and he was too exhausted to stay standing.  This was his fucking home and he could sit if he wanted, so he did, rounding the couch where just a few weeks ago he and Steve had made out during a stretch of _Parks and Recreation_ on Netflix.  He sighed, not wanting more memories of what they’d lost cropping up.  “And Steve’s sleeping, so you’ll need to wait if you want to talk to him.”

“Actually,” Fury began, shifting his stance to be more relaxed, “I want to talk to you.”

Bucky frowned, instantly on edge and even more puzzled.  “Me?”

Fury nodded.  “I take it you heard about the mission today.”

“Yes,” Bucky said.  He rubbed his fists on his jeans nervously.  “Is this about me not going out with the team?  With all due respect–”

Fury raised a hand.  “I’m not here to reprimand you.  You did what you thought you had to.”  He seemed to shrink before Bucky’s eyes, and suddenly he looked old and pained and worn.  “I’m doing what I have to, too.”

“Like letting SHIELD make a weapon against Steve?” Bucky snapped.  He couldn’t help himself.

Fury’s one eye narrowed.  “That weapon ended up saving his life, didn’t it?”  Bucky flushed, but he was too addled and angry to find a retort.  “Look, Barnes, I don’t want to argue with you about what’s happened.  It happened.  We can’t go back.  All we can do is our best, and sometimes, Barnes…  Sometimes the best we can do is start over.”  Bucky didn’t know why, but, God, that sounded like something Peggy Carter would have said.  He could practically picture her in her red lipstick and smart military uniform and her deep, wise eyes.  He could practically hear her voice. 

But it was Fury speaking, and he sighed.  “Sometimes the best we can do is pick up the pieces and build something new.”

That sounded so _fucking final._   Still, though, as much as he wanted to protest, Bucky couldn’t think of anything to say.  Fury stared at him.  “Things fell apart today.  The Avengers cracked without a leader.”  He was saying essentially the same thing as Thor had, but with far less surprise and a lot more grim acceptance.  “And the world saw it.  It’s everywhere.  People across the globe are all wondering what happened, why the team looked so shaken, why Captain America wasn’t there.”

“You should have made a statement,” Bucky said defensively, thinking back days ago when Clint had been watching the news and complaining about how the media was in a frenzy over Steve’s situation.  “You let this happen.  You led people on by not coming out right away and being honest.”

“You’re not the only ones fumbling through this, trying to figure it out,” Fury said sharply.  “I didn’t want to throw fuel on the fire with the truth.”

“You’re a spy organization,” Bucky said angrily.  “You could have just _…_ twisted stuff around or somethin’.  Made the truth into what you needed it to be.”

“And then do what when Cap can’t get back on his feet?  Keep spinning things forever?”  Fury shook his head sharply, and Bucky winced, looking away.  “No, we were right not to say anything.  I just wish we’d had more time before the Avengers had to go back out there, more time to be sure.”

“To be sure of what?” Bucky snapped, rapidly losing control of his emotions as he turned back to the SHIELD Director.  “That Steve’s done?  That he’s stuck this way for good?”

Fury appraised him evenly.  “Today’s attempt failed.  What’s worse, trying to solve the issue caused the original problem to resurface, didn’t it?”

Bucky didn’t want to hear this shit.  Not right now.  Maybe not ever. “There are other things we’re trying.  Thor just told me he’s going back to Asgard for help!  And Princess Shuri hasn’t even _looked_ at Steve.  He’s not well enough to travel to Wakanda, but when he is–”

“She might not be able to do anything either,” Fury said.  Bucky just stared, seething and furious.  Who the fuck did this guy think he was?  Fury sighed, as if he read Bucky’s mind.  “I’m not trying to rain on anyone’s parade here, but the guys we have working on the problem say there’s likely not anything anyone can do.”  Immediately Bucky opened his mouth to object, to proclaim that Shuri was among the smartest scientists, if not _the_ smartest scientist, on the planet, and who the fuck were these SHIELD doctors and researchers compared to that, but Fury was going on.  “I know, Barnes.  I know.  I’m not saying it’s impossible.  _Anything_ is possible.  But we need to be realistic.”

“And what does that mean?”  Bucky was glaring viciously at him now, but he didn’t give a damn.  “Huh?”

“It means doing as you just said: accepting that Rogers may be down for good.”

The way Fury said that was so even, so matter-of-fact.  That was infuriating, but what made Bucky’s blood boil even more was how the older man spun Bucky’s own words around and flung them back at him.  For a second, the room just blackened and closed in around him he was so enraged.  Yet again he couldn’t stand sitting still, so he climbed to his feet.  He was shaking.  He wanted to throw the bastard out of their apartment.  To hell with how Fury had protected him while he’d recovered from what HYDRA had done to him.  To hell with how Fury had protected him and Steve both.  The guy didn’t get to stand there now and speak such fucking _filthy_ lies and just get away with it.

But Bucky didn’t throw him out.  And he didn’t say anything.  He couldn’t.  The words – _you’re a fucking liar Steve’s okay he’ll get back up he always gets back up –_ were stuck in his throat, gummed up there and blocking everything, and he felt like he could hardly breathe around them.  Fury’s gaze turned sympathetic.  “This is not what I wanted.  It’s not what I ever thought could happen.  But it happened.  It’s happening right now.  Rogers is out, and he’s not coming back.”

 _No._   Bucky’s fury and hatred and defiance just _died._

“And from what I saw today…”  Fury sighed.  “The team came apart at the seams without Cap.  Someone’s got to be out there, giving the orders and calling the shots.  Pulling everyone together.”

Dizzy and cold, Bucky shook his head.  His numb lips shifted around words he didn’t think to say.  “Tony’s in charge.  Tony–”

“Stark’s many things, many _good_ things, but a leader is not one of them.  Not in the way we need for the team.  I don’t think he has what it takes to get the job done, especially right now.  And I don’t think he wants it, that he’s ever really wanted it.  When he and Rogers worked it out to begin with, he could have fought harder to be in charge.  He didn’t.  I think he knew Rogers was better-suited.”

Bucky’s heart sank with the miserable weight of inevitability.  “Then someone else.  Someone…”

“No.”  Fury shook his head.  “No, I think…”  He gave a long sigh.  “Barnes, I wanted to ask you if you would consider it.”

Even having expected that, actually hearing it – hearing that Nick Fury wanted _him_ to become Captain America – came as a complete shock.  Bucky was reeling, mouth hanging open, eyes wide.  A cold sweat was crawling uncomfortably over him, like a sick, unwanted caress.  “You want me …  You want me to–”

“I want you to pick up the shield and take over the role.  Carry on in Rogers’ stead.”  That was said very directly, like Fury was making sure there could be no misunderstanding.  Bucky was held captive by the strength of his gaze.  He couldn’t look away.  He was trapped and pinned and forced to endure this.  “I’ve considered this very carefully.  I’ve looked at Stark, looked at Wilson and Romanoff and the rest of the team.  Frankly, you’re the ideal choice.”

Through his utter stupefaction – _this is fucking ridiculous!_ – Bucky managed to sputter, “ _I’m_ the ideal choice?  What…  I’m the Winter Soldier!”

“No, you’re not,” Fury corrected gently.  Bucky glared, horrified, but Fury didn’t back down.  “You’re not.  You haven’t been for more than a year.  You’ve been rehabilitated.  Exonerated.  Vindicated, basically, in front of the whole world, ethically, legally, and officially.  You’re not HYDRA’s weapon anymore.  You’re an Avenger, only you haven’t really come into your own yet.  You’re not Iron Man or Thor or Scarlet Witch or Black Widow.  You aren’t established.  You haven’t found a place of your own, so you’re…  You’re a blank canvas, Barnes.  I know that sounds crazy, but in a way, you _don’t_ have the weight or the baggage that the others have.”

“That’s–”

“We can mold you into whatever we need.  Into _whomever_ we need.”  Bucky shook his head, overwhelmed.  The words were coming faster and faster, bombarding him in a terrible barrage.  “You’re married to Rogers.  His best friend.  His righthand man during the war.  That way there won’t be any discussion of stepping over Rogers to take his place.  You’re the closest there is to him without having him.  And you’re a super soldier and a decorated war hero.  There’s no one better equipped to take on the mantle.”

“I–”

“It’s the logical outcome,” Fury said, taking a step closer.  “You’re the best candidate we have.  And I realize this is a hell of a difficult thing to be asking, but…  People are scared.  The Avengers mean a great deal to the world.  It’s like I said when all of this started.  The integrity of the team matters immensely.  Captain America has come to symbolize everything the Avengers stand for.”

Bucky shook his head.  His voice was hardly anything.  “Steve symbolizes what the Avengers stand for,” he corrected. “ _Steve_ does.  Steve is Captain America!”

Fury’s expression softened.  “Captain America is more than Steve Rogers.  He’s more than any man, in fact.  Captain America is an icon, a symbol of hope and bravery and protection.  That image has to survive.  It has to endure, Barnes.  It can’t go down because Rogers is down.  It just can’t.”  He shook his head.  “This job requires difficult choices.  Ensuring Captain America is there to protect the world is why I let the Council proceed with Project: Delilah in the first place, why I argued for Rogers to be brought of the ice and be given a chance to live again.  You all think I made a deal with the devil, and maybe I did, but I did it because I _knew_ we needed Steve Rogers to lead this team.  I know we need you now.  The survival of hope is the most important thing of all.”

Bucky just stared.  He still didn’t know what to say.  He couldn’t argue with that.  He couldn’t argue against the truth that sometimes some things _were_ bigger than any one person.  And he couldn’t deny that Captain America was important, that he inspired so many people to be strong and brave.  He saw it during the war, what Steve had meant to the troops, the light he’d been during even the darkest hours.  But, God, he couldn’t do this.  He couldn’t!  “I can’t,” he finally said.  “I can’t.”

Fury frowned.  “Barnes–”

“I may not be the Winter Soldier anymore, but I was.  You can’t just erase that.  I’m – I’m not good enough to be Captain America.”

“Rogers would vehemently disagree with that.”  Bucky grimaced and turned away.  He couldn’t stand to hear this, and Fury knew it, that goddamn asshole, and went on.  “He thinks the world of you, and he always has.  He trusts you.  He believes in you.  He went against my advice in bringing you back, you know.  He went against _everyone’s_ advice, because he knew in his heart that you were worth it.  And he was right.  I’m not ashamed to say that.  He’d want you to have the shield, Barnes.  You know it.”

“You manipulative bastard,” Bucky hissed.

Fury simply stared, utterly nonplussed.  “I’ve been called worse, and it’s usually when I’m right.”

“No.  No, no, no.”  Bucky’s anger rose.  He couldn’t stop it.  It was bright and hot and defensive.  “You are _not_ right!  I can’t – I can’t be Captain America!  I won’t!  I won’t take that from Steve!”

“He would want you to have it,” Fury said again.

Bucky shook his head.  “You don’t know that!”

“Then ask him.”  Fury’s gaze was unwavering.  “Ask him.  You know what the answer will be.”

 _God._   Bucky couldn’t even think about it.  And he couldn’t ask Steve that.  How could he?  How could he ask Steve, who’d suffered so much and who was still suffering, who’d _built_ this symbol that Fury was so adamant be protected, who’d nearly had a panic attack at the mere thought of the Avengers facing danger without him, who Bucky loved more than anything…

How could he ask Steve if he could take his place?

“Look,” Fury said in a more sympathetic voice.  “I’m not asking you to make a decision right now.  And I’m not saying there’s no hope for Rogers.  But I’m a pragmatist and a realist.  That’s my job, what I’m good at.  What I’m _here_ to do.  I see the writing on the wall.  I can’t ignore the evidence that’s right in front of me.  And the evidence, like it or not, is this: the Avengers need Captain America.  The _world_ needs Captain America.  Think about it.”  With that, Fury let himself out.

For a long time, Bucky stood there in the shadows.  The night was so completely silent.  He couldn’t even hear the wind anymore.  There was only the sound of his heart pounding and his own shallow breathing.  He tried to think, but his thoughts wouldn’t come.  He wanted to move, to do something, to prove to himself that life could exist beyond this moment, but he didn’t.  He couldn’t talk or scream or fight or run.  He couldn’t.

No, he could only fall back into the couch, which he did heavily.  The feel of the plush cushions underneath him was shocking, like he’d struck concrete.  Then he sank.  He slipped down, leaning back, too exhausted and hurt to stay upright anymore.  It was too much.  Too hard.

It took his beleaguered mind a moment to register that something was digging into his thigh.  He barely thought to reach under the couch cushion and pull the offending item out.  And he would have just set it to the coffee table, but…

It was Steve’s sketchbook.

One of them, anyway.  He had sketchbooks strewn all over the suite.  He’d always been like that, leaving his drawings and pencils all over their old apartment, doodling whenever and wherever inspiration struck.  This was one of his favorite books, though.  He’d mentioned the other day before all this had happened that he’d almost filled it.  Bucky sat up and set it to his lap, running his flesh and blood hand over the worn, leather cover.  He could almost picture it, sitting here with Steve’s legs across his lap, the scratching of Steve’s pencil over the paper soft and lulling as Bucky read or watched television.  Back in the day, it’d be the radio, and they’d both listen to it as Steve drew, as Bucky ran his hand up and down Steve’s skinny legs, almost able to cup his entire calf in his palm.  They’d spent so many evenings just like that, needing nothing more than the quiet and each other.

It was quiet now, too.  Painfully so.  And Bucky stared at the sketchbook.  For all his grief, doubt, and pain, it was surprisingly easy to open it.  Immediately he found his own face staring back up at him.  His jaw.  His nose and forehead.  His hair, lush with sooty darkness.  His eyes.  Dark and fathomless.  Bucky swallowed through a closing throat, flipping the page.  There were of course more sketches of him, of the intricate plates of his arm in various positions, of his face lost in thought, of his smile, of him lounging in bed or down in the training room or working out.  Pictures of the way he used to be, drawn in exquisite detail from memory.  His gray suit that he’d worn when they’d gone out dancing back in Brooklyn.  His work clothes, suspenders and boots and untucked, rumpled shirts.  His army uniform.  What he’d worn as a Howling Commando.  Even the Winter Soldier, with kohl-rimmed eyes and lips pressed into a stoic frown.  He could look at that picture and _see_ his own memories coming to the surface.  He could remember himself _remembering_ , the very beginnings of familiarity and recognition, of piecing together this shattered life he’d had. 

It was such a powerful feeling that he had to move on.  He flipped through the pages slowly.  Every drawing was of him.  _Every single one._   And there were so many, each one crafted lovingly.  The dark lines and shading and perfect arcs and fine details.  The reverence and worship were more than obvious.  _He thinks the world of you._ God, it was impossible not to see it.  It was impossible not to _feel_ that, too, to feel just how much Steve loved him.  _He trusts you.  He believes in you._

_He’d want you to have the shield._

Bucky bit his lower until he tasted blood.  Still, he turned page after page.  There was a sketch roughed out near the end.  It was another of Bucky’s face, and clearly Steve had just started it.  He hadn’t done much of the rest of Bucky’s features aside from his eyes.  Deep and dark and beautiful.He stared at it, and he could hear Steve’s voice.  It had been just days ago, when they’d lain in bed after making love, and Steve had told him how beautiful he was.  _“I’ve seen you be so many things.  Seen you then.  I see you now.  I see what you’ll become.  It’s all beautiful, Buck.  Every part of you.  It’s all I see.  All I want to see.  All I’ll ever see.”_

_He’ll never see me again._

A drop of water struck the paper, seeping into it and spreading in a tiny, wet circle.  A tear.  Another fell down.  And another.  Their soft splatters were thunderous.

So was Bucky’s heart as it broke all over again.  He dropped the book to the floor, fell back, and cried.


	9. Chapter 9

Days went by.  Things slipped back into some semblance of a routine.  Some semblance of normalcy.  Steve recovered quickly enough from the frightening brush with the poisoned serum, and pretty soon he was back to overworking himself with the physical therapists and ignoring the occupational therapists.  His mood was good, the same as it had been before this setback and the team going out to fight without him.  Bucky thought it was something of a mask, a lie Steve was telling himself as much as he was telling everyone else, but neither he nor anyone else called him out on it.

In fact, Bucky was glad Steve seemed so calm and collected.  He didn’t think he had it in him to be comforting right now.  Ever since the conversation with Fury, he hadn’t been able to think about anything else other than what the SHIELD Director had asked him to do.  His life had been in a constant roil of guilt and grief and anger since Steve had been hurt, but now that uncomfortable, complicated swell of emotions had turned into a violent maelstrom of them.  He couldn’t begin to parse them.  He wasn’t even sure he wanted to.  What Fury had said was so fucking _wrong,_ like walking on a thorn, like the pain of a bone out of its joint.  Sickening and pervasive.  And he couldn’t stop thinking about it.  No matter how many times he told himself no, that he wouldn’t, that he _couldn’t_ ever become Captain America like Fury wanted, he couldn’t put the issue to rest.  It plagued him.  It was in his mind each minute of each day, lurking behind every thought, and it’d pop out without provocation.  When he was watching the therapists work with Steve.  When he shared a quiet meal with Sam.  When he talked with Natasha or Clint.  It was the last thing he thought about every night before he went to sleep.  It was the first thing that came to him in the morning.  He felt like a bastard for that, considering the idea of taking Steve’s place as he held Steve’s sleeping body, as he kissed his hair and rubbed his back and listened to him breathe.  Picking up the shield…  Even _thinking about_ picking up Steve’s shield…

That was betrayal.

And it was shutting the door on this ever changing, on things ever returning to the way they’d been.  Maybe what Fury said was wrong.  There could still be hope.  Thor hadn’t returned yet.  Steve still wasn’t quite well enough to travel to Wakanda, but he would be soon enough if he continued to make progress as he was.  While they were waiting, Shuri was often in contact with Bruce and Tony; Bucky knew that much.  He wasn’t sure, though, of what she’d been saying to them.  It obviously wasn’t a ringing endorsement of their plans or a wellspring of new ideas, if the sullen expressions Bruce and Tony wore constantly were any indication.  Regardless, he knew merely contemplating what Fury had suggested wasn’t akin to moving on.  Someone else _temporarily_ (Bucky kept adding that qualifier in there) taking over for Steve wasn’t the same as saying it was over, that the serum could never be fixed and Steve could never come back.  And Bucky knew he was wrong, wallowing too much in irrational guilt.  Being pragmatic and practical _wasn’t_ betrayal.  Christ, Steve was the kindest, most forgiving person Bucky had ever met.  He wouldn’t blame Bucky for thinking about this.

It was hard to convince himself of that, though.  Damn hard.  And the more complacent and calmer Steve was about his situation, the worse the pain became.  Steve still didn’t know how poorly the battle had gone.  He also didn’t know what Fury had proposed.  _No one did,_ and after a day or two, it started to feel like this awful secret.  A fucking burden.  It was shameful and awful and Bucky wanted to unload it by talking with someone else ( _not_ Steve, though.  Never Steve) but he didn’t dare because sharing the secret would make it real.  As long as he kept it to himself, it could be this nightmarish thing that hadn’t really happened.  Nobody aside from him and Fury knew about their little meeting.  Nobody.  Ergo, it hadn’t truly happened.

_Bullshit._

“That ought to do it,” Bruce said, pulling the needle free from Bucky’s arm.  Bucky hadn’t really been paying attention.  This had become a somewhat daily occurrence in the week since the cradle incident.  Bruce had taken a great deal of blood from him, which for anyone else would be a serious threat to his or her health.  For him, thanks to his serum, it was merely a nuisance, something that just made him feel shittier.

It would be worth it, though, if Bruce’s plan worked.  Bruce was trying to filter the serum out of Bucky’s blood, HYDRA’s crappier version of the serum of course, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.  With what he gathered, he was aiming to develop something that could help augment Steve’s healing.  By his reasoning, if Erskine’s serum was incapacitated, they should remove it from the equation and focus on developing better medicines for Steve’s condition.  Of course, the damage to his optic nerve wasn’t something that humanity had a way to overcome at the moment.  Then again, humanity hadn’t had direct access to any type of super soldier serum before, at least not like this.

Bruce handed him a piece of gauze for the seeping hole in his arm, but Bucky was already roughly yanking down his shirt sleeve.  “Something wrong?” the scientist asked.

Bucky gave a rough chuckle.  “What’s not wrong,” he grumbled.

Bruce didn’t answer that bitter statement.  “This isn’t too much for you, is it?” He set the vials into the refrigerator.  “You feel alright?”

“Fine.”  Bucky stood from the stool.  “You getting anywhere with this?”  That came out gruffer than he wanted.

Bruce didn’t seem to mind, though he did look more concerned.  “With your serum?” Bucky nodded.  “Yeah, I think.”  Bucky couldn’t stop the little rush of hope.  It always felt so damn good.  Maybe like the rush from an addiction.  He didn’t want to think about that.  “I’ve extracted and filtered a bit of it.  Not sure how pure it is.  Thankfully yours degrades less quickly than Steve’s does, but even still, keeping it viable is a real challenge.  It’s also less potent.”  He frowned.  “I need to do more tests.  And I don’t have a lot, maybe enough for one small infusion.”

All that blood for so little.  “But it’s something we can try?”

“I don’t know yet,” Bruce admitted.  “Possibly.”  Bucky glared.  Bruce sighed.  “I can’t give promises.  There are still a lot of questions.  I’m really worried about the damaged serum DNA in Steve’s body.  Delilah is keeping it contained, sure, but adding more unknowns into this situation…  Well, Helen’s procedure with the cradle demonstrated how serious the complications could be.”

Bucky didn’t want to hear any more.  It was the same shit, over and over again.  “Then what’s the point of this?” he said, trying and failing to keep the anger out of his voice.

Bruce frowned, clearly insulted and aggravated himself.  Tempers were wearing thin again.  “We can try,” he said more firmly.  “Let me run some more tests today.”  He went over to the holographic projectors and started working, leaving Bucky to show himself out.

Bucky did.  He walked through the hallways of the medical ward in a sort of a dark daze, trying not to pay too much attention to anything and anyone.  It was too difficult to pretend he was okay.  Thankfully, people kept their distance (which they normally did given who he was).  It seemed even all the time he’d spent with the nurses and doctors here hadn’t dissolved the fear and uncertainty they had toward the Winter Soldier.  Maybe if he’d been more with it he would have cared.  As it was, he was just grateful they were too scared to interact with him and thus left him alone.

A few minutes later he was heading down to the gym to pick Steve up from PT.  He didn’t really need to; Sam was with him and had promised to bring him back to their suite when the therapists were through with the morning’s work.  Steve was regaining strength in leaps and bounds now.  They had him up and walking with assistance, and his steps were taken much easier.  The bad leg was definitely problem; it was difficult for Steve to stand straight sometimes, difficult for him to get up and out of a chair by himself, and certainly difficult for him to walk.  He couldn’t bring that leg forward easily, which was resulting in, as the orthopedic surgeons had predicted, a fairly substantial and permanent limp.

Still, the PT folks had him on crutches for part of the day at this point.  He was cutting down his time in the wheelchair considerably.  Steve being Steve worked himself too hard almost every day, which meant with that with his diminished lung capacity and his lingering sense of fatigue from the blood loss he’d suffered and from being so seriously hurt, he was exhausted almost all the time.  He did it all with good spirits and a smile, though.  Not that he was cheery or happy or anything of the like.  He simply took everything in stride, worked hard, and stayed calm and patient and determined.

Bucky couldn’t help but wonder how much longer that would last.

Before he could even reach the gym to collect Steve, someone called his name.  He turned at the doors and saw Mr. Bernard coming toward him.  Inwardly he grimaced.  If Bernard was looking for him, it couldn’t mean anything good.  “Mr. Barnes, can we speak for a moment?” the taller man asked, donning a warm smile.

“Can it wait?  Steve’s waiting for me,” Bucky said, stepping towards the gym.  He really didn’t want to deal with this today.  He knew what was coming.

Bernard actually stepped between him and the doors.  That was fucking laughable, that this guy thought he could _stop_ the Winter Soldier.  Bucky gritted his teeth and tried not to glare.  “It’ll just take a minute.  Please.”

Quieting HYDRA’s training – which was not so quietly telling him to _remove_ this guy like the minor obstacle he was – still took a moment of thought, particularly when he felt this low.  “Alright,” he managed.  “What is it?”

“It concerns Captain Rogers.”

 _No shit._   Didn’t everything?  “What about him?”

Bernard’s thin lips pulled into a frown, and his dark eyes narrowed.  Bucky could see him wrestling a moment, probably trying deduce a way to broach a topic that he felt needed to be addressed in a way that wouldn’t upset Bucky further.  Bucky didn’t think that was possible.  “I was wondering if you might speak to him about showing more interest in therapy.”

“Seems to me he’s showin’ plenty interest,” Bucky said.  “He’s in there working his ass off.  Has been every day.”

Bernard frowned harder, seeing through that statement.  “I meant in therapy to help him learn to cope with his blindness.”  Bucky said nothing, keeping his face impassive and his gaze icy.  That would normally be enough to ward off pretty much anyone.  Again, he knew what people still thought of him sometimes.  There was nothing wrong with using it.

This guy, though, seemed patently undaunted.  “Captain Rogers has made great strides in his recovery, there’s no doubt about that.  The PT team told me they may consider beginning to transition him to a cane in another week or so, which is remarkable.  We’re all very pleased with his progress.”

Again, Bucky said nothing.  It was probably petty and childish, but if the guy wanted to bring up this extremely painful and unpleasant topic, Bucky was going to _make_ him do it.  Bernard still didn’t back down.  He sighed.  “Mr. Barnes, Captain Rogers needs to begin to adapt to his situation.  There are strategies he can learn, things we can teach him, to help him regain more independence.  That’s the purpose of occupational therapy: to help him learn ways to live a full and fulfilling life.”

 _Jesus._   “And?”

Bernard’s eyes flickered with a touch of frustration.  “And I can’t see to that purpose if he won’t accept the help being offered.”

“He’s taking your advice.  Putting things in the same place, using the clockface thing with eating, doing all the things you said to help him take care of himself.”

“There’s more to it than that, sir,” Bernard said.  “We have fantastic programs to aid the blind and vision impaired in managing their lives.  There are assistive technologies–”

“Tony – Mr. Stark, I mean, can help with that.”

“Yes, but Captain Rogers shows no interest in learning.  Most significantly, he needs to embrace new methods of communication.  Of course, having so much advanced technology at his disposal is a boon for him, but he should consider reading and writing in Braille.”  Again, Bucky flinched inwardly.  Bernard was right; Steve had shown _no_ interest in that.  “With all due deference to Mr. Stark, technology can fail.  It’s important the captain be able to function without it, and using Braille is key to that.”

“I’m not sure learning a new language is necessary–”

“It’s not a new language,” Bernard corrected.  “It’s simply a new way of representing the language he knows.  With a little hard work, he can become fluent in it.  Research has shown that Braille usage increases literacy among the blind.”  Bucky just stared.  Bernard sighed again.  “I admit; there are other avenues he can certainly pursue.  Still, it would likely be of benefit to him.  In addition, I’ve mentioned he should consider counseling.  This is certainly a major life change, originating from injuries sustained in the line of duty, and it might help him a great deal to speak with a specialist in combat trauma and PTSD.  Then I’ve brought up the idea of a service animal, which would be a good avenue of support as he becomes more mobile, but he’s ignored as well.  I’ve discussed a great many strategies to him that I don’t think he’s made any note of.  It’s like talking to a wall in some sense.  Like I said, he’s not interested, and I’m not sure that’s for the best–”

“Maybe he’s not interested because he’s not interested,” Bucky replied, and that was just stupid bullshit.  He knew it the second he said it.

Bernard knew it, too.  He finally got to the heart of what he wanted to say.  “Research also shows a poor prognosis for veterans with vision loss from combat-related traumatic brain injury unless that veteran receives comprehensive support and assistance.  The prevalence of comorbid depression, anxiety, and PTSD is very high.  The likelihood Captain Rogers may begin to suffer from any one or more mood or psychiatric disorders is also high.  He may already be.”

“For God’s sake, you can’t expect him to lose the serum, lose the use of his leg, lose his sight, lose his–”  Bucky choked on “shield”.  He could just couldn’t say it.  “You can’t expect him to go through all that and not grieve.”

“He’s _not_ grieving.  That’s the point, Mr. Barnes.  Refusing to so much as acknowledge our advice and therapies, from Braille to some of the strategies we’ve mentioned to the service animal to anything beyond the bare minimum of functioning with his disability–”  Bucky cringed at the word.  He bit his tongue to keep quiet.  “–is good evidence that he’s not processing any of this.  He’s not dealing with it, not accepting it, and believing he can just muscle through this.  Soldiering on.”

That made Bucky angrier.  Frankly he knew he was taking his own issues out on this guy, who was really just a convenient target, the symbol of the thing Steve had lost that hurt more than anything else.  “Who are you to judge how he’s handling it?  Who are we to say how he should feel or think or act?  What he should focus on?”

“I’m not saying he needs to feel or think anything other than what he feels or thinks.  I’m not judging his emotional responses at all.  All I am saying, frankly, is that he needs to allow himself to _have_ that emotional response.  He’s avoiding the implications of his situation.  He’s detached, composed, putting on a brave face for everyone else.  He’s treading water, in a sense, but he’ll lose the strength and energy to do that eventually.  It’s not denial, per se, but it’s certainly unhealthy.”  Bernard looked Bucky straight in the eye.  “Furthermore, the fact that everyone seems intent on trying to… _fix_ his situation is not helping matters.”  Bucky bit his lip again, and Bernard raised a hand.  “Again, I’m not saying the attempts will all fail or that you shouldn’t be trying.  But, to my understanding from Doctor Banner and Captain Rogers’ other physicians, the odds of anything restoring the serum are very low.”

Bucky looked away.  “So you want us to let it go?”

“No,” Bernard said.  “Not at all.  But we also need to help him acclimate to his current condition.”  His expression softened.  “You know recovery, Mr. Barnes.  You know better than anyone.”  Bucky gritted his teeth.  That hit way too close to home.  The anger rose again, but this time it was surprisingly short-lived and impotent.  He knew the therapist was right.  “It’s not easy, not linear, not simple, and the hardest parts are often the most important.  I’m not an expert on grief, mind you, but I believe the hardest part for Captain Rogers will be to let out his grief and his frustration.  His pain.  That will be his first step on the road to acceptance, and we have to help him there.  He…  Well, it’s more than obvious to all of us that he thinks the world of you.”  That cooled Bucky’s ire like a bucket of water thrown onto a fire.  He closed his eyes, sinking and hurting.  “He’ll follow your lead.”

God, there was no way this guy could possibly know how meaningful that was, how much it would hurt.  And it hurt.  Bucky sagged.  In the silent moment that followed, he slipped into this sad, exhausted state of calm.  Numbness and apathy.  “Okay,” he finally said.  “Okay, yeah.  I’ll, um…  I’ll speak with him.”

Bernard nodded and smiled comfortingly.  “We’ll be with you in whatever way you need.  Captain Rogers isn’t the only one who deserves support.”  He waited a moment more, like he expected Bucky to specifically request things he needed or wanted right then and there, but Bucky had nothing to say, so Bernard politely excused himself.

It took Bucky a while to make himself move, to walk inside and see Steve light up in relief when he came close.  He did, though.  He always did what he had to do.  Steve had taught him that long ago.

Later that afternoon, Steve fell asleep on the couch.  This seemed to be the pattern now.  He’d overwork himself during PT in the morning, come back to their suite for a shower, a meal, and some painkillers, and then he’d pass out peacefully wherever he happened to be.  It worked out well, because this was typically when Bernard and his team came for OT.  Usually Bucky told them to come back later when Steve was awake, but today he just had Friday turn them away at the door.  He really didn’t feel like dealing with them or anyone else.

“Are you okay?”

Bucky looked away from where his husband was snoring softly on the couch with the throw tucked around him.  Natasha was standing in the entrance to the living room with a cup of coffee in her hands.  She looked pale and haggard, but that was how she always looked now.  Still a ghost.  “Yeah,” Bucky mumbled.  He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to rub his eyes more awake.  “Yeah.”

“Come have some coffee.  Sam’s made some and ordered up donuts.”

Bucky wanted to say no, but it was pretty obvious the only believable excuse he might come up with was that he needed to sleep, and he didn’t want to do that.  So he slumped a bit in defeat and trailed her into the kitchen area.  Sure enough, the smell of fresh coffee hit him the second he walked in.  It was usually so pleasant and alluring, but right now it turned his stomach.

Sam was at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, pouring a couple more mugs.  “Black?” he asked.

That was the way Bucky normally liked it.  Steve was the one who’d discovered the wonders of fancy creamers and other junk that made coffee into a dessert.  “Yeah,” he grumbled, not wanting to think about Steve for a bit as he sank gracelessly into a chair at the bar and buried his aching head into his hands.

Sam frowned, gently pushing his mug to him.  Then he set a plate of donuts and other pastries in front of him.  Natasha sat beside him on another stool, and then everything just went silent.  No one drank.  No one ate.  No one even talked.

At least for a bit.  Then Natasha sighed, lifting her steaming mug to blow onto it.  “Bruce is draining you dry,” she commented quietly.  “You need to stop.”

Apparently Bucky really did look as crappy as he felt.  What a surprise.  “Can’t,” he answered.  “Not if it can help Steve.”

“Can it?” Natasha asked dubiously.  “Bruce didn’t seem sure.”

“He said he’d know more tomorrow.  Maybe we can try it then.”

“What about what happened last time?” Sam asked.  He leaned into the counter.  He too looked so goddamn _rundown_.  “Is it worth going down this road if it could make Steve sick again?  Plus, I don’t know about you guys, but I can’t…”  He sighed, shaking his head.  “I can’t take much more of this.”

Bucky didn’t have an answer.  There was no answer.  The weight of all these decisions, things that dictated Steve’s life and Steve’s pain and Steve’s happiness…  It was crushing him.  Suddenly keeping the truth inside was too hard.  He just didn’t have the strength to feel like this anymore, and it was fucking ironic, considering HYDRA had erased his mind and his memories and his emotions.  He better than anyone _should_ have been able to compartmentalize the anguish and carry on with his mission.

But it was too late now.  Natasha was staring at him with those sharp, perceptive eyes of hers, and he knew right away that there was no going back.  “What?” she asked, setting her untouched cup down to the granite counter.  “What is it?  You’ve been… _off_ for days.”

Bucky glanced to Sam, but Sam had wickedly perceptive eyes, too.  They were expectant.  Waiting. Bucky dropped his gaze and lowered his head, sagging more.  The shame made his insides shrivel.  It also made the words finally come.  “Last week…  Last week after the mission in Myanmar, Fury came to me.  He asked me if I would…”  He faltered.  Maybe that would be for the best.  The same excuses pressed down on him.  Maybe eventually everything would go away if he lied and ignored it.

It wouldn’t.  His therapist always told him during his recovery that confiding in others was the key to success, that carrying miseries alone only made them more miserable.  He prayed that would be true now.  “He asked me if I would take Steve’s place.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.  Bucky couldn’t look up.  It was like merely _saying_ that was yet again akin to betrayal, like Fury had come and offered him Steve’s job and he’d immediately taken it and thrown himself a party over the promotion.  Danced on Steve’s proverbial grave even.  It was awful.

Natasha gave a short, shaking breath.  “What?”

God, they were going to make him say it again.  Bucky closed his eyes and tried not to break the counter as he clenched his metal fingers around it.  “He asked me if I would become Captain America.  He wants me to pick up the shield and go out there and lead the Avengers.”

More silence.  Bucky heard cloth rustling.  That was Sam moving, turning around, and leaning more into the breakfast bar like he needed the support.  “Jesus.  What the fuck,” he gasped.  “His bioweapon is what took Steve out to begin with, and now he wants us all to move on?”

“That’s not true, Sam,” Natasha said softly.  Her voice wasn’t sharp, but it was firm.  “You know it’s not.”  Sam met her gaze for a moment, waiting and scowling like he wanted the argument, and when she didn’t rise to his bait, he sharply looked away with another whispered curse.  Natasha sat still a moment, and her eyes slowly lost their focus.  “Did he say why?”

Bucky swallowed through a tight throat.  “Isn’t it obvious?”

It was.  _We screwed up.  We couldn’t handle it without him.  We couldn’t be a team without Captain America._   Natasha closed her eyes, her narrow shoulders falling.  “It’s still all over social media.  People want to know where Steve is.  They want to know he’s okay.”

“Fury says he doesn’t want to make a statement,” Bucky said.  “At least until there’s a decision.”  Sam tensed again but this time said nothing, staring at the darkened appliances.  Bucky turned to Natasha.  “I don’t suppose you and Clint were able to find out anything more about Project: Delilah?”

Natasha shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line.  “No.  And if there was anything to find, Fury would have mentioned it.  Clint’s been working with him.”  That wasn’t all that surprising, but hearing Natasha say it…  _The same shit, over and over again._   Bucky felt Natasha’s eyes on him.  He finally looked up, and there they were, strong and green and piercing.  “What are you going to do?”

Somehow that simple question was enough to stoke the strength and stubbornness inside him.  “Nothing,” he answered, taking a sip of his coffee.  It burned his throat the whole way down, but he didn’t even wince.  “I’m not doing it.”

That had Sam looking back toward him, clearly pleased.  “Good.”

It didn’t feel good, though.  It didn’t feel right.  The air was rife with the discomfort of it, and there was more silence that smarted with unhealed pain rather than brought closure.  Eventually Natasha found the courage to say what she wanted to say.  “Maybe…  Maybe it shouldn’t be dismissed outright.”

Bucky flinched.  Thankfully, Sam was the one who raged against it.  “You’re not sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’.  Are you?”  The accusation dripped from his tone.

“We need a leader,” Natasha replied, stronger in her assertion.  “You don’t agree?”

“Of course, I agree,” Sam said.  “But we _have_ a leader!”

“Steve can’t run battles from a bed or a wheelchair,” Natasha said.  Sam glared.  “He can’t call the shots if he’s blind.  He can’t.  We need someone on the field commanding the team.”

Sam shook his head dismissively.  “It is _way_ too early to be thinking about this.”

“Then when?  It’s been almost three weeks, Sam, and you just said that maybe we should stop trying to fix the serum.  That it’s too much.”

“I said I don’t want to see Steve at risk again.  That doesn’t mean we stop.”

“It doesn’t seem like we can do one without the other.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I know we can’t keep pretending this situation can get better just because we want it to.  What’s done may very well be done.”  Bucky squeezed his eyes shut.  He didn’t think he could listen to more talk like this.  “And we can’t pretend life isn’t going on.  It is.  The next time the call comes in–”

“We’ll go out and do better,” Sam declared.  He was challenging Natasha to argue with him again.  “We can do better.  We’ll figure it out.  I know Tony and I argued last time, but I won’t get in his way again.  He can lead.  I’m cool with that, okay.  I was mad at him, and I still am, but I can deal with it.  And we can work out the kinks, train without Steve on the field, do whatever we have to to make it work until he’s back.  We can make it work!”

“This is about more than the Avengers and the team dynamics,” Natasha declared.  “It’s about Captain America.  It’s about what Captain America means.”

Had Fury talked to her?  That made Bucky feel even more uneasy, that maybe the SHIELD Director had discussed this with someone else.  Maybe he’d told Natasha to pressure Bucky or to argue the point on his behalf or…  Natasha sighed harshly, glancing between them.  “Like it or not, Captain America’s bigger than Steve, bigger than the Avengers.  Bigger than any of us.  People need that symbol.”

Sam didn’t buy that for a second.  “That’s not fucking fair, Nat.”

“Come on,” Natasha said sharply.  “Don’t tell me you didn’t grow up hearing stories about the greatest soldier that ever lived.  Don’t tell me they weren’t all over the Air Force Academy.  Cap’s a legend.  A hero.  An icon.”  Sam grunted and looked away again, arms folded defensively over his chest.  Natasha barreled onward, fighting her emotions more and more.  “I know what that icon means, what that star on his shield means, and I wasn’t even born American.  Even in the Red Room, they used Captain America as a symbol of freedom and justice.  _That_ was our enemy.  That’s the enemy of the evil of the world.  That’s also the hope for the good out there.  I didn’t realize when I brought Steve into SHIELD why Fury wanted him so badly, but I understand now.  I’ve understood since I heard Captain America give that speech at the Triskelion and Insight was launching.  I heard _Captain America_ rally SHIELD behind him when so much was on the line with just a few words.  You were there, Sam.  You saw it.”

“Yeah,” Sam said angrily.  “Yeah, I was there.  I did see it.  You heard a voice.  I _saw_ the man behind it, Nat.  And it wasn’t just anyone with a shield in the suit.  It was Steve.  You can’t separate Steve Rogers from Captain America!  You just can’t.”

Natasha stared coldly.  “Fate’s done that for us.”

Sam’s eyes flashed, and he bit his lip hard.  Bucky could see him nearly gouging it.  “That’s not fair,” he said again.  “That symbol wouldn’t mean _anything_ without Steve behind it.  Steve made it.  Steve embodies it.”

“Yes, he does,” Natasha said.  “But if he doesn’t get better, he can’t anymore.  I didn’t say anything about it being fair.  I just said I understand why Fury’s doing this.  Why he’s asking.”

“He shouldn’t be asking!” Sam snapped.

“If Steve was dead,” Natasha said, and her voice shook, like she knew she was treading into even more dangerous territory.  She went on.  “If Steve had died, would you feel as strongly about this?  If Fury had come to you and asked you to take his place, would you refuse?”

Sam looked sick.  Tormented.  _Conflicted,_ when it came down to it, which was the same way Bucky had felt for days.  “If Steve was dead…  I…  If there was no one else, no other choice…”  He exhaled slowly, turning away.  “Fuck.  I don’t know.”

Natasha nodded, like she’d won something.  Bucky had no idea what.  What was there to win in this?  Sam scowled a bit.  “So it’s a damn good thing Fury’s not asking me.  You told him no, right, Bucky?”  Bucky wearily nodded.  “No.  So that’s it.  It’s done.”

Only it wasn’t done.  Long after Sam and Natasha were gone, the argument they’d had echoed in Bucky’s head.  What they’d said hadn’t helped at all.  They’d simply put real, angry, _hurt_ voices to the debate that was constantly going on inside him.  The whole awful thing wasn’t lurking in the back of his thoughts now.  It was at the forefront, loud and demanding, so completely consuming that on their daily walk outside the complex, Steve noticed he was distracted.  “You okay?” he asked from the wheelchair, turning to look behind him like his eyes could actually help him figure out what was going on.

Bucky jerked from another reverie, looking down on his husband’s expectant face.  God, he was glad Steve couldn’t see him, couldn’t see the lie.  “Yeah, doll.  I’m fine.”

They walked along the lawn, heading to the hill that had a nice, big tree they’d discovered a few days ago.  It was a great oak with wide boughs and a lush canopy, perfect for lazing under.  Bucky wheeled Steve up to their spot and laid down the blanket.  Then he helped Steve limp over.  The crutches weren’t ideal, to be frank; given Steve couldn’t see and couldn’t use his hands to help him figure out what was in front of him, he was very tentative on them and relied heavily on someone telling him where to go.  Bucky patiently guided Steve to the blanket and then helped him down.  He sat right behind him, letting Steve lean back into his chest so that Steve could stretch his bad leg out.

Then it was quiet.  It was a really nice spring day, warm with a bit of a breeze that could be a tad chilly when it blew too hard.  Steve had a sweater on, but Bucky could tell he was cold, like he used to be all the time.  Bucky pulled him close, metal arm across his chest and flesh and blood hand rubbing gently at his arms, hoping he could provide some warmth.  Steve shivered, wheezing a little.  “How are you doing?” Bucky asked softly.

“Alright,” Steve answered.  He wasn’t very relaxed.  “What’s it look like?  Sun’s out, right?”

Bucky didn’t speak for a moment.  This always took him aback.  Over the last week or so, as Steve had gotten more mobile and more interactive with his world, he’d started asking more and more for Bucky (always Bucky) to describe things to him, things like the weather outside or what his physical therapists looked like or the color of the clothes he’d selected for the day.  It was so damn painful, but Bucky did it.  “Yeah, it is.  It’s nice out.  Blue sky.  Few clouds here and there.  Things are getting really green now.  It’ll be summer soon.”

Steve said nothing.  The quiet that came wasn’t comfortable.  Steve wasn’t comfortable either, squirming and a little rigid.  “Somethin’ hurt?” Bucky asked.

Steve gave a rough chuckle.  “Everythin’.  Kinda forgot what it feels like to be sore and tired all the time.”  Bucky could practically picture his wry, rueful smile.  “A few years of the serum spoiled me.”

“Stevie…”

“Come on, Buck.  What’s eatin’ you?  You’ve been off for days, ever since things went wrong with Doctor Cho’s idea.  I really am fine, you know.  Nothin’ bad happened.”

Bucky sighed.  He knew he should tell Steve the truth.  Fury had practically advised him to.  Sam and Natasha’s argument was still loud and painful though, like thunder between his ears.  “Nothin’s eatin’ me.  I’m just…”  _Scared.  Angry.  Grief-stricken.  Lost.  Broken._   “I’m tired.”

Again, Steve didn’t respond at first, and the oak’s leaves rustling behind and above them was so loud.  “Tired, huh.  I get that.  Unfortunately you’ll be wheelin’ me around for a while, takin’ care of my sorry ass the rest of our lives.  Not that I blame you for bein’ depressed about that.  It’s pretty goddamn depressin’.”

 _Holy hell._ “Jesus, Steve.  Don’t say shit like that.  You know it ain’t true.”

“Then talk to me!  I’m not an invalid!  I can still help.”  Steve’s voice shook.  The sheer amount of emotion backed up behind those words was intimidating.  “I can at least listen.”

Hearing that made Bucky feel even worse.  “I know you can.  It’s…  I can’t talk about this with you.  Not right now.”  Yet again he was demonstrating how much of a pathetic coward he was.  “You just need to concentrate on getting back on your feet.  Don’t worry about me.  Everything is alright.”  He kissed Steve’s hair – _same old shit, over and over again_ – but Steve didn’t relax.  He never relaxed completely the whole time they were outside.

Later that evening after dinner, they were back in their suite, sitting on their couch with a good foot between them.  It was quiet, but once more that quiet was not even close to comfortable.  Even with the television on and making noise, the lack of communication between them was striking.  The movie had an additional audio track of description for the blind (Tony had already gone through the complex’s extensive media library and updated every movie and show he could to a new version with that accommodation), but even still, Bucky could tell Steve wasn’t paying attention.  Bucky kept glancing at him, and he was sitting there, feeling the threads and fibers of the throw over his lap.  Bucky had noticed him doing that a lot now, fiddling with and touching things like that.  He’d read some days ago during all that research that blind people could experience an enhancement of other senses, sound and smell and touch maybe becoming stronger as the brain perhaps rewired itself.  Bucky didn’t think that this was because of that, though.

It was a nervous tic Steve had never had before.  Steve was simply trying to ground himself, to remind himself that there was a world around him, that the _nothingness_ wasn’t the end.

That made Bucky think of the conversation he’d had that morning with the occupational therapist. He hesitated, suddenly wanting to talk but not sure of how to say it.  He just went for it.  “You know, I, um, spoke with Mr. Bernard today.”  He stared at Steve, trying to gauge his reaction, but Steve was staring at his lap where his fingers were wrapping around the fabric of the throw.  His lack of response made Bucky go on.  “He’s got a lot of ideas that might help more.  Good ideas.  Learning to read Braille maybe?  Getting a…  A dog might be something worthwhile.  What do you think?”

Steve stood suddenly.  It was too fast, and he seemed dizzy on his feet.  Bucky rose with him, reaching over to steady him, but Steve shuffled off.  He fumbled for where he’d left his crutches propped against the side of the couch, knocking them both to the floor in a thud and clatter, before getting one.  He got that under his arm on his bad side and started limping away.  “Don’t need your help,” he said breathlessly.  His voice wasn’t angry but rather hurt and shaky.  “’m okay.”  He shuffled to the hallway that led to the bedroom.  Bucky watched, waiting like an asshole for him to fall so he could rush over.   Steve didn’t.  He struggled, nearly stumbled, but he made it.  And he didn’t even look over his shoulder at Bucky.  “G’night, Buck.”

In the emptiness that followed, Bucky felt more alone than ever.  It was godawful, so without thinking twice, he was asking Friday to keep an eye on Steve and walking out.  He didn’t know where he was going – _this can’t go on we have to fix him I can’t be Captain America I can’t I can’t I can’t_ – so before he even realized it he was outside of the labs where Tony and Bruce had been working around the clock.

Bruce happened to be coming out as he got there.  “Oh, hey,” he greeted.  The scientist looked strung tightly, tense and unhappy.  “I was going to get in contact with you tomorrow morning, but you’re here, so…”  He took off his glasses.  “If you want, we can try the infusion of your serum tomorrow.  It should be ready.  I have enough for two small doses, so in theory, we should at least be able to tell if it will have an effect.”

Bucky was so riled and beaten that none of that made sense at first.  Bruce stared at him, clearly frustrated and riled himself.  “Bucky?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, gathering himself.  “Yeah, okay.  Good.”

“I’ll let you know when exactly.  We should do it in medical.  Get Steve on the monitors and have the emergency teams ready just in case we disturb the monster inside.”  Surely Bruce wasn’t blind to the personal meaning there.  He didn’t say anything on it, though.  “Does that sound good?”

Bucky nodded.  “Yes.  Thank you.”

“Alright.”  He started walking away but didn’t make it far before he turned back.  “Are you looking for Tony?”  Again Bucky nodded, though he hadn’t really decided on that.  Subconsciously he’d come here, though, so obviously some part of him had.  “He’s in the lab.  He’s, uh, not in the best of moods.  Consider yourself warned.”  Then he was gone.

Bucky stood outside the sealed doors of the lab for a moment.  He wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing here, to be honest.  He supposed it made sense to talk to Tony.  Again, clearly a part of him had thought that and brought him here.  But he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.  Did he want to ask Tony what he thought about Steve’s condition?  Was there still hope for a cure?  Did he want to find out if Tony actually wanted to become the leader of the Avengers?  Did he even care about Tony’s opinions?  Steve always thought so highly of what Tony said and did, but, fuck, he and Tony had hardly seen eye to eye before this.  That tangled knot of emotions that always surrounded Tony was only worse now.  God, if Tony hadn’t pushed so hard to shut the serum down…

_Steve would be dead._

Bucky didn’t know what he thought.  He didn’t know what he wanted.  The more he really thought about it, the more he realized he didn’t know what he could even say.  That was just as well, because it was pretty obvious Tony wasn’t in the right mindset to listen.  The second Bucky stepped through those doors, he could see through the glass walls into the lab beyond.  And he could hear a hell of a ruckus.  A flutter of papers went flying.  Glass smashed.  Equipment crashed to the floor.  Tony was the cause, sweeping another armful of stuff off the workbench.  Whatever argument he’d had with Bruce had clearly tipped him over an edge, and he gave a ragged, desperate cry.  His back was to Bucky as he leaned into the workbench.  The mess was spread all around him.  He was shaking, sobbing maybe.

There was no way Bucky could go inside.  He stood, feeling like an intruder, and watched as Tony came apart.  Friday was speaking softly.  Bucky couldn’t quite hear what she was saying.  It wasn’t his place to know, wasn’t his place to see this.  He turned around and walked away.

Back in their bedroom, it was dark and cool.  Steve had managed to get himself to bed.  He hadn’t been overly careful about it; his clothes were strewn on the floor, and his crutch was dumped beside the bed.  Without a thought Bucky cleaned everything up, setting the crutches up against the wall where it should be.  He stripped off his shirt and his jeans before taking an A-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants from the walk-in closet.  He went to the bathroom to dress and brush his teeth and noticed a mess in there, too.  A towel on the floor.  A glob of toothpaste on the sink.  A few things knocked over on the vanity.  He straightened up there before handling his own business.

Then he went to the bed.  Steve was curled on his side, clutching his pillow, burrowed under the comforter.  Bucky sighed before climbing in beside him.  He curled around him, cuddling as close as he could, wrapping his left arm around Steve’s midsection and sliding his right under Steve’s shoulders to pull him closer.

Steve’s pillow was wet.  _Soaked._   Steve had cried himself to sleep.

Bucky stilled, surprised and horrified.  For what felt like forever, he just laid there, feeling that damp pillow case under his fingers.  Then he shivered through a sob of his own and tugged Steve into his arms, laying kiss after kiss to the back of his head where he’d hit it _so hard_ when he’d fallen.  “God, sweetheart,” he whispered.  “Everythin’s fallin’ apart.  Gotta stop it.  I don’t know how, but…  But I’ll figure it out.  I’ll make this better.  You did it for me, and I can do it for you.  I can.”

_I have to._


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning, they were back in the medical ward.  The team had gathered again, but it wasn’t with the excitement and hope of before.  Well, that wasn’t entirely true.  There was excitement and hope; it was an automatic reaction to any chance of something restoring Steve to what he had been (or at the very least helping him heal).  It was just much more under control today.  Sam, Natasha, and Clint were there, but they were clamping down hard on anything overly positive.  They weren’t smiling much.  There were no jokes or light-hearted talk of encouragement.  They were scared as much as they were hopeful, and that made for a whole lot of tension as Bucky and Bruce helped Steve into the hospital bed.

“Is all this really necessary?” Steve asked as a pulse oximeter was clipped to his finger and sensors were taped all over his chest.  He was staring at Bucky as he asked that, not Bruce.  Bucky didn’t know if that was intentional or not.

Bruce answered all the same.  “Absolutely.  The way SHIELD’s bioagent is neutralizing the serum is obviously not infallible.  What happened last time proves that.  Sadly what we’re going to try today is not going to fix the serum, so if something disturbs the bioagent and the serum goes haywire again…”

Steve sighed shakily.  “Right.  Bad things happen.”  He flinched a bit as Bruce started threading an IV.  Bucky watched, torn between trying not to hope this could work and being deathly afraid of something else going wrong.  He glanced at the others, but they seemed caught in that same situation, all hard expressions and anxious eyes.  Steve shook his head and tried to settle.  “Feel like a ticking time bomb.”

That didn’t sit well with anyone.  In fact, the whole morning thus far, nothing Steve had said (or _not_ said) had sat well with anyone.  He was obviously suffering, losing control of his composure, and struggling so adamantly not to show it.  It was maddening, but Bucky didn’t dare call him out on it and strip any more of his self-esteem away.

Sam didn’t dare, either.  He smiled a bit and stepped closer to the bed.  “Hang in, Cap.  Chin up.”

“Yeah.”  Steve sucked in a deep breath, clearly trying to do what Sam asked.  “Yeah.  I’m ready.”

With that, Bruce got down to it.  He inserted a second IV, connected the wires and tubes to a machine, and then carefully brought a pouch of dark red liquid over.  That he hung on the pole as he started to explain.  The set-up was similar to the last time; Friday (and Bruce) was monitoring Steve’s vitals carefully, as well for any signs of contaminated serum in his blood.  They’d continue with the infusion of Bucky’s serum unless there was any sign of distress.  Again, Bruce stressed, this wasn’t something they had tested before, so there were a great number of unknowns at play.  They needed to be cautious and prepared for any eventuality.  Furthermore, the serum Bruce had gathered from Bucky’s blood wasn’t as pure, concentrated, or powerful as he’d like.  Still, it was something.  They’d do the first infusion, and if that went well, they’d complete a second in a couple hours.  Then it was a waiting game.  The hope was the infusion would produce enhanced healing, only it was Bucky’s serum doing the heavy-lifting, rather than Steve’s.

At that, Steve looked at Bucky again.  He always seemed to be able to find Bucky in the room, even if he couldn’t see him.  He smiled, and that smile spoke of so much love and gratitude.  It was the first real emotion he’d shown all day, and it was beautiful.  Bucky hadn’t directly told Steve about Bruce’s efforts over the last few days, so maybe the source of this potential elixir was coming as something of a surprise to him.  His beautiful grin was all it took to melt the hesitation, doubt, and tension in Bucky’s heart.  The embers of hope slowly igniting inside suddenly burned hot and wild.  Maybe it was stupid and sentimental and hokey as all get out, but it felt then like _this_ chance was _more_ of a chance.  This was stronger, better, purer, because it had love behind it.

Unfortunately, dreams didn’t equal reality.

The serum infusion didn’t cause any problems.  It didn’t interact with SHIELD’s bioagent or threaten Steve’s vital signs or do anything dangerous.  That was a humongous relief.  But it also didn’t _do_ anything.  After the first infusion went without a hitch, they administered the second, just as planned, and waited again, only nothing changed.  Not that they had any data to predict how Bucky’s serum would work.  Bruce said that repeatedly as the hours went on with no sign of accelerated healing occurring.  There was, in fact, no indication the infusion was active in Steve’s blood.  The serum they were adding wasn’t detectable in any of the tests they were doing.

That meant it was degrading before it could do any good.

Which was sadly Bruce’s scientific conclusion as the morning wore on.  It wasn’t entirely unanticipated.  He was explaining the same things to Sam and Natasha that he had to Bucky the day before: HYDRA’s version of the serum was inferior to Erskine’s, not as powerful, not as pure or durable, not as sustainable.  And using a shoddy replica to replace something so perfect…

The analogy hit hard.

Later that afternoon, Bruce sent Steve back to his suite.  Sam and Clint helped him there while Bucky stayed behind a moment.  Now that he’d embraced hope again, it was hard to let the truth in.  Hard to accept it.  “Would more blood help?” he asked as Bruce cleaned up.

Bruce was calm, which was good considering how rattled he’d been the night before.  He was defeated, though.  “I don’t think so.  I mean, is it possible your serum is doing some good?  Maybe.  Only time will really tell.  I’ll keep running the blood tests for the next few days to be sure.  But it’s not likely.  There are no signs of active serum in his body.  I don’t think there could be significant healing without that.”

God, how could it hurt so much to hear this?  Bucky shook his head.  “Maybe if you had more, you could filter it better.  Get it more concentrated.  Find a way to preserve it so it lasts?”

Bruce sighed, throwing the last of the mess into the garbage.  The nurses could have cleaned up, but he’d taken it on himself, like he needed the closure.  “It’s not impossible,” he eventually conceded, turning sad eyes to Bucky.  “But the amount of blood you’d need to give–”

“I’ll give it,” Bucky promised simply.

“Bucky, it’s not worth the burden on you,” Bruce declared.  “I’ll keep working on it, but Steve needs you feeling solid and healthy more than he needs you draining yourself dry for some remote chance of helping him.”

As much as he wanted to fight that, Bucky knew he couldn’t.  Bruce was right.  This was always a longshot.  It took him a minute or two to drum up the composure to go on.  “So what next?”

Bruce pulled off his lab coat.  He ran a hand over his mussed hair.  “I’m not sure,” he admitted.  “I think Tony had some other ideas.  Something with using Vita-rays to stimulate the serum to heal itself.  He’s been researching his father’s work on Project: Rebirth a lot.”  That got Bucky’s heart beating harder and faster again.  Just like that.  It was pathetic, how little it took to drive hope back into him.  Bruce seemed like he could sense that.  “Don’t get too excited.  It’s another remote possibility, to tell you the truth.  And I told him it might not be worth the danger to Steve to try.  This is exposing Steve to more radiation, which could be more dangerous than anything else with all the bad serum under lock and key. Tony knows that.  That’s why he was so angry last night.  He didn’t tell you all this when you talked to him?”  Bucky shook his head, not brave enough to admit to the truth of how he’d fled like a coward.  “Well, it’s the same thing.  It’ll really be up to you guys to decide if you want to try it, but I’m not sure I’d recommend it.”

Bucky didn’t want to think about another longshot right now, let alone the dangers that went with it.  “What else?”

Bruce shrugged wearily.  “Wakanda.  Tony’s been in contact with T’Challa.  They’re ready for Steve to come.”

That was far worthier of hope.  “Can he go?”

“I don’t see why not.  He’s well enough now.  Again, it’s really up to you.”

Bucky considered it a moment and then nodded.  “Let’s get it arranged.”

That led to making plans that afternoon to fly to Wakanda in two days’ time.  This time, Bucky explained the situation to Steve outright.  Steve had already known that Tony and Bruce were in contact with T’Challa and Shuri, that all of this had been building in the background, but the prospect of finally going to Africa was new.  Right away it lifted Steve’s spirits, and he was smiling again, vigorously agreeing.  The sight of faith shining in his eyes, even as vacant and unfocused as they were, was breath-taking.

The following couple days absolutely dragged onward.  Against all their better judgement, hope crept back into their hearts.  Wakandan medicine, powered by the vibranium that ran so richly under its verdant lands, was powerful and remarkable.  Bucky knew that firsthand.  They all did.  Had it not been for Princess Shuri’s genius and King T’Challa’s kindness, Bucky would not have been rehabilitated.  He definitely wouldn’t have an arm that actually functioned and didn’t cripple him with agony.  With Wanda’s and Vision’s help, Shuri had also been able to remove the triggers HYDRA had put into his head, repairing the damage seventy years of HYDRA’s chair had done to him.  If they could fix Bucky, they could fix Steve.

That was the belief, anyway.  Everyone was a tad breathless with excitement, the lessons learned from Doctor Cho’s disastrous procedure and Bruce’s failed plan quickly and easily forgotten.  The pervasive good mood made everything seem just a bit unreal.  Steve went back to PT.  Bucky helped him.  Natasha, Clint, Sam, and Wanda came and went from their place, bringing food and smiles and comfort and company.  According to Wanda, Vision was working with Tony.  That seemed to be from the falling out Tony had had with Bruce; he’d traded in Banner for a lab partner who was perhaps less willing to question him.  Bucky didn’t know, and it seemed pretty disturbing but on the periphery, like he should find that upsetting but he couldn’t manage it.  He couldn’t worry about Tony, about Bruce, about anything, because there was another chance to look forward to, another hope to hold onto.  Nothing else mattered.

How bad things were didn’t start to become clear until Rhodes showed up the afternoon before they were due to fly to Wakanda.  Bucky was in the common room when Rhodes appeared, walking in with Clint at his side.  Rhodes hadn’t been to the complex since Steve’s injury; right after the alien attack in New York, the Air Force had deployed War Machine on a peace-keeping mission in Southeast Asia.  Since Rhodes was active military (and War Machine was somewhat the property of the US Government, a fact which Stark used to disparage with vigor), when they ordered him to go somewhere, he typically had to.

Now he looked like he was scared to be back, scared of what he’d find.  “Hey, Barnes,” he greeted with a sad, worried smile.

Bucky stood from where he’d been researching some websites he’d asked Mr. Bernard to send him.  Steve was with the OT team now as he was most afternoons before dinner, and Bucky had taken to not being present for that.  It was a little selfish, of course, to be avoiding the situation, but he justified it by telling himself he was trying not to be a buffer between Steve and the therapists.  That was hopefully forcing Steve to deal with them more, which was what Bernard wanted.

At any rate, he went to Rhodes, hesitantly taking his outstretched hand.  The two men had little to connect them; Rhodes didn’t always fight with the team, and he was Tony’s friend.  Bucky hardly knew him.  He seemed like a nice guy, though, another military man.  “Good to see you,” he said.

Rhodes nodded.  “Yeah, you too.  Thought I’d stop in.  Got back to the States yesterday.  I wanted to come earlier, but I couldn’t.”  He sighed.  “Maybe I should have tried harder.  The news about the team going out without Cap was everywhere overseas.”

“Unfortunately, it still is,” Clint commented.  He folded his arms across his chest.  “People are still going crazy.  Some of the worst nuts are out there claiming Steve’s dead and we’re not man enough to own up to it.”

“That’s bullshit,” Rhodes said unhappily.

“Yeah, but it makes waves.”  Clint shook his head.  “It’s really a goddamn mess.  I know Fury wants to keep things under wraps, but this is just festering.”

“What a nightmare.”  Rhodes turned to Bucky.  “And there’s no chance…”  He didn’t finish.  He didn’t have to.

Bucky shook his head.  “We don’t know yet.  Nothing’s worked so far.”

Clint added, “We’re flying out to Wakanda tomorrow to let Shuri and T’Challa have a crack at it.”  His neutral shrug did little to hide his emotional investment.  “Maybe they can do something.  Maybe.  I don’t know.”  He grimaced a bit.  “Might be time to think beyond it all, though.”

“And tell the public the truth?” Rhodes asked.  Clint shrugged again.  Bucky knew he was talking about more than that.  What were the odds that Natasha had confided in him about Bucky taking over for Steve?  High, probably.  “Who’s running the team right now?  Obviously someone has to.”

Clint glanced at Bucky.  Bucky didn’t care if it was paranoia, but his gut clenched up in ire.  He sure as shit knew.  “Nobody.  We’re working on it.”  Clint’s expression softened a bit.  “Hey, if you wouldn’t mind feeling Tony out about things…  Nobody’s hardly seen or really heard from him in days.  He’s been working his ass off trying to fix the serum.”

“Yeah, I got that impression the last time I talked to him,” Rhodey said.  “He’s seriously blaming himself.  It’s not his fault.”

Bucky waited to see if Clint would agree with that or deny it.  He did neither.  “We’re worried.  He’s torturing himself.  It’s fucking obvious, and it’s like watching a train wreck.”

“Yeah, I know how that is,” Rhodes grumbled.

Clint sighed.  “Plus he’s the closest thing we have to a leader at the moment.  If he’s not capable, then we’re really up shit creek without a paddle.”

“I’ll speak with him,” Rhodes promised.  “I’ve been looking around for him actually.  But since I ran into you…”  He settled compassionate eyes on Bucky.  “If it’s not too much trouble and if he’s feeling up to it, you think it’d be okay for me to drop by later and see Cap?  I, uh…”  A look of grief crossed over his face.  “I’ve been thinking about him a lot.  Thinking about how things went to hell out there that day.  I, um…  I thought he needed back-up when he went into that building.  I knew you guys had eyes on him, but, hell, everything went south so fast with the way those aliens were after everyone.  I wasn’t engaged when he went in to get those people out.  I could have come to help him.  I should have done more.”

 _We all should have._   “Not your fault, either,” Clint said softly.  “Not anyone’s.”

Rhodes managed another sad smile.  “Well, I’d like to see him, if I can.”

Bucky wasn’t too keen on company right now, but refusing seemed like a jerky thing to do.  “Sure.  He should be about done with the therapists.  You want to come with me now?”

Rhodes seemed a bit taken aback, like even though he’d requested this he wasn’t mentally prepared to actually do it.  “Sure.  That’d be fine.”

“Alright.”  Bucky led Rhodes out of the common room after the other man shook Clint’s hand.  Then they were walking down the short series of hallways that led to Bucky and Steve’s suite.  At first they were silent, and it was awkward and uncertain.

By the time they reached the familiar doors, though, Rhodes carefully took Bucky’s arm to get him to wait.  “Look, it’s probably not my place to say anything.  Obviously I wasn’t there when things got really bad with the serum.  I don’t know the particulars.  But…”  He stepped a little closer.  It wasn’t aggressive or offensive or anything of the sort, but Bucky felt crowded.  “Tony loves Steve.”  He realized how that came out, particularly to Steve’s husband and long-time partner, and frowned in embarrassment.  “I didn’t mean…  You know what I mean.  Steve means a lot to him.  They fought a lot in the beginning, sure, but once they got past that…  I’d never seen someone come into Tony’s life who’s made Tony try so hard to change, not even Pepper.  I think in some ways he’s always measured himself, and been measured, against Steve, and that hurt him for a long time.  Now, seeing that Steve trusts him and listens to him and respects him…  That’s gone a long way toward helping him make peace with his past.  It’s made him a better person.”

Bucky knew all that.  Hearing it, though, made it firm and very real in his heart.  Rhodes went on.  “It took a lot for Tony to be okay with you being here, and I’m not saying that to make you feel bad.  I’m really not.  It was hard for him, and his friendship with Steve helped him get past the pain and the anger and accept it.”

“I know that,” Bucky said.  “I know how much he means to Steve, too.”

Rhodes nodded.  “This situation…  It’s unimaginable.  But you have to know that Tony would _never_ do anything to hurt Cap.  I know him better than anyone, and the mere fact that Steve went down like this on his watch is killing him.”  Rhodes looked so forlorn, long-suffering in a sense.  “Tony may seem confident and arrogant and impulsive, but deep down he has a lot of issues with self-esteem and insecurities.  A lot of internalized pain and guilt.  Trust me when I say he’s much angrier with himself than you could be with him.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say to that.  He didn’t want to accept it.  He knew he should, and that Steve would, and that it was the right thing to do, but it wasn’t so easy to quiet how much it hurt, how much _he_ hurt.  How angry he was.  Rhodes took his silence for acquiescence and understanding, though, and gave him a grateful look.  “All I’m saying is it would be best not to let emotions get in the way of holding this family together.  Staying strong for each other, for all of us, all of you, is…  Well, it’s what Steve would do if he could.  And it’s what needs to be done.”

 _What Steve would do._   If Steve hadn’t been lamed.  If Steve wasn’t blind.

But Bucky just bobbed his head and followed Rhodes into their suite.

The mystery of where Tony was hiding was instantly solved when they walked deeper into the living area.  The inventor immediately stood from where he was sitting in a chair adjacent to Steve.  He’d obviously been leaning close, holding Steve’s hands on Steve’s lap, and he let go quickly.  It was just like before, like in the hospital room days ago.  Tony blanched and made to run the second he saw Bucky.  “Tony, what’s wrong?” Steve asked, fumbling for his friend.

The tension was sudden and awful.  Bucky stared at Tony, and Tony stared at Bucky.  Steve, of course, had no idea what was going on, so he was looking around wildly before clumsily standing himself.  That snapped Rhodes into motion.  “Hey, Cap,” he greeted, donning a smile Steve couldn’t see and crossing the living area to grasp Steve’s hand that was still reaching.  “Hey.  How you been?”

“Rhodey?” Steve said, surprised but not upset.  He gave a crooked smile and a little laugh.  “Hi!  When did you get back?”

That reaction emboldened Rhodes, and he came closer, holding Steve’s arm.  “Not long ago.  Just dropped in to check on you.  You doing okay?”

“Okay, yeah,” Steve answered.  He seemed genuinely happy to have a guest.  “How’d your op go?  They tell you we’re flying to Wakanda tomorrow?”

“Steve, we can talk more later,” Tony said abruptly, shuffling away as if he wanted to escape.  He barely glanced at Rhodes.  “I’ll be waiting outside.  Take your time.”  He rushed out.

Bucky didn’t let him go.  Leaving Rhodey chatting amiably with Steve, he chased after Stark and caught him right by the door.  Tony looked frustrated and baleful, not trying to flee further but also not meeting Bucky’s gaze and making his displeasure with this impromptu confrontation very, _very_ clear.  “What?” he demanded.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asked, and that came out significantly more accusatory than he wanted.

“Talking to my friend,” Tony snapped in response.  “Pretty sure I can still do that without your permission, can’t I?”

The spite in Tony’s voice was unreal.  Bucky tried not to be hurt or angry, tried to focus on what Rhodes had just told him, but it was damn hard.  “Depends on what you want to say,” he said, trying to keep his voice level.  That was childish and spiteful and possessive as all fucking get-out, but he didn’t care.  Obviously Tony had snuck in here to speak with Steve when he’d _known_ Bucky would be gone because of the occupational therapists.  That meant he didn’t want Bucky to hear him.  “What do you want?” 

The tension that had been simmering between them so long snapped.  Tony’s eyes flashed, and he pushed, undaunted, right into Bucky’s face.  “If Steve wants to tell you,” he said lowly, “he will.  Ask him.”  He stared a moment more, meeting Bucky’s gaze head on for the first time in what felt like a long time.  Bucky glared back.  Then Tony turned and walked out, closing the doors loudly behind him.

The unpleasant, enigmatic encounter stuck with Bucky all evening.  After Rhodes left, he and Steve ate dinner in a tense silence.  Tense and miserable.  As he shoveled pasta into his mouth and chewed unhappily, Bucky wondered how aware Steve was of the disquiet.  Steve was eating more slowly, but he was fumbling more with his meal than he had been of late.  He nearly spilled his water.  Spaghetti was on the table around his plate.  The noodles were already a bit of a challenge, and Bucky wouldn’t have ordered it if he’d thought more about it.  The mess was maybe the most obvious sign Steve was distracted and uneasy.  He didn’t say a word otherwise.  All through the dinner, Bucky wanted to ask him what Tony wanted.  What Tony had said.  He didn’t dare, though.  That was invading Steve’s privacy, stripping him of what little control he had over things at this point, and like all the times before when it came to Steve’s agency, he still didn’t want to do that.

At least, he didn’t want to until the stress became too much.  He was so out of sorts that tolerating the silence was too hard.  After dinner, Steve was back on their bed again, with Bucky rubbing tenderly at his injured leg using the methods the PT folks had shown him in a deep muscle massage.  It was the nightly torture, as Bucky had bitterly taken to calling it in the privacy of his thoughts.  Steve was in pain, eyes squeezed shut, trembling just a bit and wheezing slightly (almost enough for Bucky to want him back on the oxygen, of which he’d been free for numerous days now).  He was resolute about getting through this, though, same as he always was, and pressed on even when Bucky suggested they stop.  Bucky kept a careful eye all the same.

Once they were done and Steve was breathing easier, Bucky got up from their bed.  Silently he went into the walk-in and found a couple duffel bags, the ones they’d taken a few months ago on a trip to Europe.  Steve had taken a long weekend off from work, and they’d gone around France, Italy, and England, visiting places they hadn’t seen in years (seventy some odd, to be exact, and though it wasn’t actually that long for either of them, it felt like it had been).  They’d gone to some of the villages the Howling Commandos had come upon during their campaign.  They’d seen Jacques Dernier’s family, the French and Italian countryside, Paris, and London.  It had been a lovely trip, filled with memories and laughter and great food and making love.  Just thinking about how wonderful it had been made his eyes cloud with frustrated tears.

Back in the bedroom, he started packing, not putting much care into what clothes he stuffed into the bags.  “Buck?” Steve asked from the bed, obviously disturbed by rough ruckus.  “What’s botherin’ you?”

Bucky sighed, grabbing underwear and socks.  For a split second he thought about letting it go, but he couldn’t.  “You know what.”

Steve grimaced.  “Huh?”

“What did Stark want?”

Either Steve didn’t realize it was supposed to be some sort of secret or he didn’t care for the drama.  He answered simply with a hard expression.  “He’s got a plan to correct the serum.  An idea he wants to try.”

That was just as Bucky suspected.  “Does this plan involve using the same radiation his father used during Project: Rebirth?”  Steve’s brow furrowed in confusion.  Bucky went on, ramming more clothes into the bags.  “Bruce talked to me about it.”

“Oh.”  Steve smiled cautiously.  “Tony thinks it might work.  Vita-rays stimulated the serum to transform me to begin with.  He’s got some complicated theory that the genes involved with that might still be intact, and flooding them with more energy could induce the serum to repair itself.  I guess.  You know Tony.”

Bucky did know Tony well enough, and that was part of the problem.  “Did he tell you it’s dangerous?”

Steve’s smile collapsed.  “He said it could be risky, yeah.”

Bucky sighed.  He knew where this was going from the clear guarded look of Steve’s eyes.  “How risky?”

Steve’s expression got tighter anew.  He knew where it was going, too.  “He didn’t talk about it much.  He said exposing someone to radiation is always risky.”

“In your case, Steve, it’s more than that.  The damaged genes for the serum are still inside you.  SHIELD’s bioagent is just keeping it back.  If something disturbs that–”

“I could get sick.  I know.  I was there.”

“You could _die._ ”  Steve sharply dropped his chin.  “You didn’t see what that stuff did to you!  One second your heart was beating and you were breathing and everything was fine, and the next you were…  You…”  Bucky couldn’t finish.  He was too flustered to focus on what he was doing, so he pushed the bag to the floor beside the bed and paced.  “What the hell…  He knew I’d never agree to it–”

“What is there for _you_ to agree to?” Steve said tautly.  His voice was thick with anger in a way Bucky had rarely heard before.

Bucky sighed.  “I mean, I just…  I don’t mean that my decisions are the end-all, be-all here.  I just think he’s not bein’ honest.”

“Tony wouldn’t lie to me,” Steve replied, shaking his head defiantly.

“But he might downplay the danger if he wanted you to agree.  He didn’t want to talk about this in front of me or anyone else because he knows it’s not a good idea.”

Steve was closing down before his very eyes.  “No.”

“Bruce was arguing with him about it last night!”

Steve squinted and shook his head.  “I’m grateful Bruce is so careful but–”

“Tony’s operatin’ out of guilt and frustration and he _knows_ he’s grasping at straws–”

“He doesn’t know that,” Steve shot back.  “And he’s not.  Tony’s smarter than anyone.  If he says this could work, then it could work.”

“But at what cost?” Bucky demanded, his tone louder and thicker with emotion.  “Bruce told me didn’t think the likelihood of it working was very high.”

“It’s not Bruce’s experiment,” Steve argued.  “This is Tony’s idea.  And why the hell is he talking to you about?  He should be talking to me about it!”

“Steve–”

“No.  I appreciate him looking out for me, but everyone needs to stop–”

Bucky didn’t stop.  “Exposing you to more radiation’s like – like maybe throwing more fuel on the fire.  There’s no telling what it could do to you.  Tony is not thinkin’ this through, okay?  He’s not.”

“He’s trying to help!”

“How much more do you have to pay for his mistakes?”

That was too far.  Steve’s glare was vitriolic, and the fact that it wasn’t focused on Bucky made it _worse_.  “This isn’t Tony’s fault.  Are people blaming him?”  His eyes narrowed.  “Are _you_ blaming him?”

Bucky bit his lip until he tasted blood.  He didn’t answer the question.  “Steve, I don’t want to say this, but…  If nothing comes out of going to Wakanda, it might be time to…”

“To what?  Give up?  Let it go?  _Accept_ it?  Are you really telling me that?”  Bucky couldn’t believe he was.  Steve obviously couldn’t, either.  He shook his head, frowning and rubbing at his bad thigh himself.  The motion was nothing but agitated, and his eyes were wet.  “It’s my life, isn’t it?  My body?  My choice?”

“It _is_ your life,” Bucky snapped.  “But you’re lucky to have it right now.  Don’t you get that?  You’re lucky to be alive!  You can’t keep risking yourself for the small chance of a miracle!”

“Any chance is worth taking, isn’t it?” Steve hotly returned.  “I can’t stay like this.  I can’t.  I _had_ a life, Buck, and it’s gone, and I can’t not try to get it back.”

Christ, that hurt.  It was the first time he’d really heard Steve say something about his injuries, his disabilities, that was so openly harsh and frustrated.  This was the first time he was getting a glimpse of the anger and pain behind the wall.  There truly was a storm of it, and it was seeping through the façade.  And it hurt so much.  Bucky exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself so he could make the man he loved see reason.  “Steve, please.  Please, sweetheart…  You gotta realize that it’s not worth the danger it’ll put you in.  It’s reckless.  Doctor Cho’s experiment showed us how dangerous it was.  That wasn’t a setback, love.  It was a warning, and I can’t…  I can’t…”  _I can’t see you hurt again.  I can’t see you back in medical with a tube down your throat and machines keeping you alive.  I can’t lose you._

_And I can’t protect you.  I can’t make this decision for you._

It was quiet for a moment.  Steve was staring at his bad leg where it was stretched out before him, still rubbing at the sore muscles almost viciously.  Bucky closed his eyes.  “What did you tell him?”

Steve didn’t answer at first.  Maybe he wouldn’t.  His face was mostly stoic and blank, but Bucky could really see the anger bleeding around the edges the implacable mask.  Eventually, though, Steve blinked and sagged a bit, licking his lips and abandoning torturing his leg.  He dropped his gaze, eyes laden with tears he wasn’t letting himself cry.  “I told him we could try it after Wakanda,” he said softly.  He sniffled.  “I told him we should see what Princess Shuri has to say first.”

That was something.  A compromise and a delay, at least, and one that was good enough for now.  Before Bucky could say anything further, Friday’s voice almost timidly announced, “Sergeant.”

Worry prickled through Bucky.  Friday so rarely addressed him directly.  In fact, as he stood there reeling, he couldn’t remember any other time it had happened.  “What?”

“The Avengers are assembling.”

Bucky froze in place.  If she was telling him, that could only mean they wanted him.  The rest of the team wanted _him_ to come.  He shook his head, dizzy with the realization.  “I can’t–”

“The mission parameters require sharpshooters, and Hawkeye feels he alone will not be enough,” the AI evenly explained.  “Mr. Stark says you must come now.”

 _No._   Bucky shook his head, staring wide-eyed at Steve.  “I can’t go anywhere!  I can’t–”

“Go,” Steve said firmly.  “I’ll be fine here.”

“Steve, you’re not–”

“I said _go_ ,” Steve snapped.  Bucky knew that look, that fiery anger Steve sometimes got when someone – _anyone_ – back in Brooklyn thought he wasn’t capable, that he couldn’t do something.  Bucky had been on the receiving end of it more than once in his life.  “Go.  I’m fine.  I don’t need you here to take care of me.”

Christ, that hurt.  When this had happened before, he’d had the excuse of Steve being ill in the medical ward.  He’d had the emotional upheaval of Cho’s failed procedure to validate his need to stay close.  Now he had none of that, and the weight of responsibility was like an anchor tied to his foot as he desperately tried to tread water.  “Steve, you can’t–”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Steve warned.  All the sudden he getting out of bed, limping clumsily the couple steps to get into Bucky’s face.  Well, where he thought Bucky’s face was.  He wasn’t quite right, which made the knot tighter in Bucky’s throat.  Nonetheless, Steve stood tall, and his face was full of clenched anger.  “I’m okay today.  I’ll be okay.  Nothing hurts.  Nothing’s botherin’ me.  Friday can babysit me.”

“Damn it, Steve, I’m not leavin’ you behind–”

“You’re worth more than my nursemaid.  You’re an Avenger.”

“I only became an Avenger because you’re one!” Bucky shot back.  “I only did this because I was following _you_.”

“Then follow me.”  Steve’s eyes narrowed, even as he glared at nothing.  “Follow my orders.  Go out there and fight.  You want to help me?  I need you to do that because I can’t.  I need you to fight until I can again, _so go._ ”

 _Jesus Christ!_   “Until you can again?  Are you fucking _listening_ to yourself?”

Now Steve really snapped.  “Goddamn it!  Go!”

Bucky glared back at him, fuming, hurting, _seething_ until he realized Steve couldn’t see him scowl.  Then he growled and stalked to the door.

Though he’d been quiet about it, Steve realized he was going.  He called after him, and his voice was softer now.  “And you didn’t become an Avenger for me, Buck.  You became one because you’re a hero.”

Bucky was hurt enough to hiss an angry _“bullshit”_ before slamming the bedroom door behind him.

* * *

Everything went to hell.

Again.

To be fair, this level of hell was a far cry from the mission where Steve had been so badly injured.  To begin with, the Avengers hadn’t been sent somewhere where the media and the public were so present and capable of witnessing and filming their every move.  That was blessing.  The Tibetan government had apparently contacted SHIELD some time ago about a HYDRA base hidden deep in the mountains along the southern border with China.  It was nestled in a particularly treacherous place, so remote and inaccessible that it hadn’t been discovered until recently. There’d been some hints the cell had been making efforts to acquire nuclear weapons, and Chinese intelligence had reasons to suspect they might have been successful. However, they’d been either unable or uninterested in handling the situation, so SHIELD had taken over the operation.

From the get-go, things had been tense, unbelievably so.  No one was immune from the emotional distress that had been building and building since Steve had been hurt.  The fact that the situation had been so complicated and hazardous had only amplified the disquiet. Bucky had felt like an intruder the second he’d stepped on the quinjet.  That discomfort he sometimes had in dealing with the rest of the team rose to a fever pitch.  He didn’t belong there with them.  He wasn’t really an Avenger, despite the bold, arrowed _A_ on the arm of his uniform.  He’d only been out with the team twice, and both times Steve had been there.  No matter what the stubborn asshole said, he was the reason Bucky was a member of this team.  Therefore, without him there, Bucky didn’t deserve to be.

That awful feeling had dogged him the entire mission.  It hadn’t just been him distracted, either.  _Everyone_ had still been so fucking out of sorts.  All the dysfunction of the Avengers’ first operation without their captain had framed the context of every moment of this one from the start, like a gleeful heckler taunting and tormenting from the sidelines.  It had made them all grind together like gears out of sync in unoiled machinery.  Watching it the first time had been difficult enough, but experiencing it?  Being a part of it?  A _cause_ of it?

It drove Bucky mad from moment the jet deposited him in his spot high one of the guard towers surrounding their target.  HYDRA’s cell had been less a camp and more a fortress, a huge, well-fortified place nestled in the rocky, ugly mountains.  The terrain’s forbidding nature should have been a warning as to how difficult the battle would go.  The team had gone in, armed with inaccurate intelligence and against an enemy with no shortage of hatred for them.  It was a fucking miracle they had all come out alive and well.

 _Mostly_ well.

“Hey.  Hey, guys!  C’mon.”  Peter had been wriggling and whining since they’d returned to the helicarrier and deposited him in the medical ward.  He’d taken a couple fairly bad hits, the worst of which being a fairly serious bullet graze to the side.  The nurses had stripped his uniform from the waist up, and they were stitching him as quickly as they could, which wasn’t all that quickly at all given how generally uncooperative he was being.

It was with good reason.  Peter was watching the Avengers gathered around him, Sam and Natasha and Clint, Tony and Rhodey, Wanda and Vision.  And Bucky.  They were all there, crowding around the kid as the nurses glanced at each other, annoyed that this had to be happening here while they were trying to work.  Peter wasn’t annoyed, though.  He looked scared, like a kid watching his parents fight.  “I’m okay,” he said.  “Really!  I am.  It’s fine.  I’m fine.”  That wasn’t too convincing when his words tightened into a pained hiss as the nurses stitched.

Not that it mattered.  There probably wasn’t anything under the sun that could reassure Tony now.  He was pacing, still in Iron Man with the helmet off.  The armor was dented and scraped from the chaotic battle, marred by bullet strikes and impacts.  Tony himself looked unhinged, like he was beyond regaining his composure.  “No, it’s not fine,” he corrected Peter, and Peter grimaced, leaning back more into the gurney.  Tony rounded on his teammates.  “This is _not_ fine!  What the fuck happened out there?  Huh?  How the _fuck_ did this happen?”

Rhodes sighed.  War Machine was as battered as Iron Man, but he was far more collected.  “Tony, come on.  Calm down.  Take it easy.”

Tony’s eyes flashed as he glanced at his friend.  “No!  I’m not going to take it easy!  I’m not going to calm down until someone explains to me why Parker ended up in that fucking hellhole by himself!”

Clint frowned.  “We were pinned down outside.”

“And how the hell did _that_ happen?” Tony demanded, casting accusatory eyes around the team.  Bucky dropped his gaze the second that fiery scowl found him.  His head and heart were pounding.  Christ, Stark had to know exactly what had happened.  It had been on comms loudly and clearly.  Even if it hadn’t been, surely Friday had kept him apprised of the location of everyone on the team during the battle.  And Bucky could appreciate his panic over Parker.  Peter was just a kid really.  Bucky didn’t know the particulars of the agreement Tony had worked out with his Aunt May to allow him to participate as an Avenger, but whatever it was, Tony took it to heart.  Peter hadn’t been with the team very long, but that was utterly obvious, just how much Tony watched out for the young hero’s safety.  Just how protective he was.

So the close call had definitely been terrifying.  On the heels of what had happened with Steve, this sort of emotional response was even more unavoidable.  Still, as Bucky stared at his combat boots, grinding his teeth and battling his own emotions, he wondered why the fuck he was letting himself be cowed.

He wasn’t the only one.  “You know what happened,” Sam spoke up from Bucky’s left.  “Pete was already inside.  He had the best shot of stopping those bastards before they got the nuke mobile.  He had to take it.  They were going to get that weapon on that truck and get it off the mountain.  Or, worse, they could have just fucking detonated it.  The blast radius–”

“–was enough to kill thousands of people around the mountains.  I know that!” Tony snapped, getting more upset by the second.

Sam didn’t back down.  “You _do_ know that, Stark.  So why the hell are you yelling at us?”

“I think that’s pretty fucking obvious, isn’t it?” Tony roared.  Peter flinched and Rhodey looked away and everyone wavered.  It was like knowing a tidal wave was bearing down on you but not being able to move, let alone run.  And what did it matter if you did?  You’d never be able to escape it.  There was nowhere to go.  “He could have been killed!  He was in there, alone, with dozens of HYDRA soldiers who were all armed to the teeth.  Where the hell was his backup?”

“Outside,” Natasha replied.  Even she was losing her cool.  “Dealing with the dozens of HYDRA soldiers all armed to the teeth.  Parker slipped in when the rest of us couldn’t.”

“Guys,” Peter said in a small voice, “It’s okay.  I’m really fine.  No harm done.”

“No,” Tony yelled.  “He shouldn’t have been sent in there!”

“Maybe it wouldn’t have come to that if someone had been leading us!” Clint snapped tersely, glaring at his teammates.  “No one stepped up to the plate.  We knew what happened last time, and we fucking let it happen again.  Everything was a goddamn mess.”

“Clint is right,” Vision added.  His voice was its normal degree of utterly implacableness.  “Without a clear direction, we floundered again.  It’s obvious we need someone to act in Captain Rogers’ stead.”

No one said anything to that, but everyone’s eyes were on Bucky.  Bucky and Tony.  And, again, Bucky stared at Tony, and Tony stared right back.  It was pathetically immature, but here they were, broken and frightened and no one able to accept what was right in front of their noses.

Then Tony went on.  He didn’t acknowledge Vision’s comment.  “It doesn’t matter.  You should not have gone after them,” he said to Peter.  “You shouldn’t have been the one.”

Beneath bruises and dirt, Peter blanched.  “Mr. Stark, come on.  I handled it.  It’s fine.”

“Jesus!  It’s not fine!  How many times do I have to say it?”  Tony was falling apart.  Bucky could see it.  Frankly, it was hard to muster some sympathy because the focus abruptly shifted his way, just as he knew it eventually would.  He felt Tony’s glare, felt his _fury,_ and he finally found the courage in his own anger to look up.  “What the fuck were you thinking?” Tony immediately demanded.

Bucky swallowed the lingering taste of dirt, sweat, and ash.  For a moment, he wondered if Sam or Natasha or any of the rest of them would come to his defense.  No one did.  He didn’t know if it was because he was still outside the team or if what he’d done was indefensible or if none of them were brave enough to weather Tony’s wrath.  It didn’t matter why.  He ground his teeth together before finding the words he needed to speak.  “I made a call.  No one else could get there.”

Tony obviously hadn’t been expecting him to argue, like he’d immediately admit fault and sheepishly accept the blame with his tail tucked between his legs.  Tony didn’t know him – the real him – at all.  The engineer stepped closer, even angrier.  “You made a call,” he seethed.  “ _You_ did.”

“No one else was,” Bucky replied coldly, “and I had an eye on the situation.”

“A fucking sniper’s eye,” Tony hissed.  “Who the hell put _you_ in charge?”

The fucking irony loaded in that rhetorical question was unbelievable.  Bucky couldn’t help but wonder if Tony knew about what Fury had said.  Probably not.  “I had an eye on it,” he said again.  “You guys put me in the guard tower to do that.  And I was picking off every one of the hostiles I could, but it wasn’t going to be enough and I couldn’t get solid aim on the van.”  He thought back to the moment where he realized HYDRA’s forces were going to attempt to transport the nuclear warhead they’d acquired from their stronghold.  The convoy wasn’t much, but it would have been difficult enough to take down with the number of armored vehicles and soldiers involved.  Plus, once it got onto the winding mountain roads with that bomb precariously held inside that van…  “It was too risky.  Peter was already in the building.  I did what I thought was best.”

Tony didn’t seem capable of seeing that, let alone accepting it.  “I called out that they were breaking up!  We’d gained an edge on the guys outside, and we could have–”

“There was no time.  Any assault meant going through two or three more companies of men _inside_ the fortress that you didn’t even know about–”

“Because you didn’t fucking do your job!  You were supposed to call out targets!  You were supposed to keep us apprised of the situation inside!”

Bucky clenched his metal hand into a fist.  “I did,” he said coldly.  “I’m not sure where these guys came from.”

“Nice fucking excuse,” Tony spat.

Sam didn’t stand for that.  “Our intel was bad, in case you haven’t noticed!  They obviously had a lot more firepower than we were told!”

Vision frowned as he appraised his human colleagues.  “The situation was not arranged to our favor,” he reminded, “but we resolved it with minimal negative consequences.  Mr. Parker’s injuries, while they could have been quite serious, are not.  They are superficial.”

“Superficial,” Peter said with an attempt at a disarming grin.  “Yep.  And I heal fast, so it’s cool.”

“Indeed.”  Vision turned to Tony, to the man who’d _made_ him, and offered a consoling look.  “There is no cause for debate, at least not with this level of vitriol for one another.”

“There sure as shit is,” Tony retorted.  He wasn’t going to let this go.  He didn’t even look away from Bucky’s face, such anguish and ire in his brown eyes, more than Bucky had ever seen in him before.  “Just because things ended up going alright doesn’t make it okay!  We should have backed off.  We should have pulled out and regrouped and come at it from a different angle.”

“There was no time,” Natasha said again.  “Tony, come on.  You’re going tear everyone up like this?  It doesn’t help.”

Tony rounded on her.  “For fuck’s sake, am I the _only_ one who’s at all upset that Parker almost got his ass handed to him?  That the same fucking thing almost happened again?”  _Jesus._   The small shred of hope that Bucky had that Tony wouldn’t go this way just died.  Tony was going there, and he was going all out.  “He went in, _alone_ , to deal with a situation, got outnumbered, and the rest of us just stood there and watched him get hurt!”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut.  “Mr. Stark, please, it’s not like that–”

“And, what’s worse, _you_ told him to do it!” Tony shouted, pivoting to get right back in Bucky’s face again.  “You’re right, Barnes.  _You_ made the call.  You looked at the situation and instead of playing it safe and making sure we had a handle on things, you sent a kid into a death trap.”

Bucky was so angry he was shaking.  “That’s not how it went down.”

“I would have thought that after what happened, you of all people would know better,” Tony snarled.

That was it.  Absolutely the _fucking_ end of it all.  All this unspoken anger and hurt and blame…  It was coming out, and Bucky didn’t give a damn about softening its blow.  “After what happened, huh.  Which part are you talking about, Stark?  The part where we all let Steve go into that building alone because we all thought Captain America was invincible?  Or the part where we didn’t treat his injuries as aggressively as we should have because we all took the serum for granted?  Or how about the part where _you_ pushed us into giving Steve that bioagent?  Where you refused to even stop and think about what we were doing?  The part where what we did made him _worse_?”

The medical bay went quiet, silent enough to hear the proverbial pin drop.  The team aside, dozens of people were watching.  Bucky immediately felt terrible for saying what he just had, but, fuck, it needed to be said.  Tony didn’t get to stand there and imply, first, that Bucky had knowingly made a mistake and sent Peter in to be hurt, and, _second_ , that he’d done the same with Steve.  That was spiteful bullshit, and he wasn’t going to stand for it, and if it was petty to finally say the things _they’d all been thinking_ , then it was petty.  He was too angry and devastated to care.

Tony blanched.  His eyes shone with sudden tears as he stepped even closer to Bucky.  “You know that’s not true,” he said in a low, threatening tone.  “You know there wasn’t a choice.  Steve would’ve died if we hadn’t–”

“You don’t know that,” Bucky hissed.  The memory of the argument he’d seen that terrible day when they’d realized the serum was damaged beyond the repair, the one between the Avengers in Bruce’s lab with Sam shouting and Tony scrambling to defend their choices and the rest of the team reeling…  The anger he’d bottled up in that moment was exploding.  “You don’t know that now, and you didn’t know it then, but you were so sure you were right that you pushed and demanded and _refused_ to listen to anyone else or even wait–”

“I _was_ right!” Tony shouted.

 _“You don’t know that!”_ Bucky’s voice was raw, twisted with all the misery he’d been holding at bay for _weeks_.  “You didn’t give the serum a chance to save him.  Maybe it could have healed itself.  Maybe it could have–”

“It was killing him!” Tony screamed.  “I did the only thing I could!”

Wanda’s meek voice cut through the anger.  She was standing next to Vision, pale and horrified at what was happening.  “Please.  Let’s not do this–”

“And you’re conveniently forgetting that you’re the one who actually chose to do it in the end.”  Tony’s voice was cutting.  Bucky hadn’t forgotten that, could never and would never forget it.  Tony dug his barbs in deeper.  “You’re the guy married to him.  You’re his medical proxy, the person he picked to make decisions for him when he couldn’t.  That made it _your_ call, not mine, so don’t you dare lay this all on me, Barnes.  Don’t you dare.”

“I made that decision based on _your_ advice,” Bucky snapped.

“And my advice was solid,” Tony yelled back.  “It was goddamn solid!  It was the only thing we could have done!  If I hadn’t said what I said and did what I did, Steve would be dead.  _No fucking question._ ”  That was harsh and cruel, and he just kept going.  “Would you have preferred the worst case scenario?  Huh?  Would that have been better than this?  No, _this_ was the only choice, and I was the only one pushing us where we needed to go.”

“Funny how you change your tune when shit gets rough, huh, Stark?”  Bucky’s tone was every bit as scathingly cruel.  This was escalating and escalating, and like an impending train wreck, he couldn’t stop.  “I guess all that stuff you told me about my opinions mattering when it comes to Steve was all a lie.”  He took a step even closer until he and Tony were practically eye to eye.  “I took your advice.  I listened to what you said.  I trusted _you_.”

The awful implication of that hung there.  _I trusted you to save him, and you failed._ Tony was shaking.  His eyes were even sharper, brimming with angry tears and so much pain, and Bucky felt like a bastard.  He wasn’t sure he meant any of that.  Then again, he wasn’t sure he didn’t.  Everything felt so wrong, so out of control more than ever before, and the air was crackling with far more than tension.  It was all that pain and grief, pouring out into the open, mixing and combining and boiling into violence.  Normally Tony would never be a match for him; he was much faster, stronger, and an expert combatant.  With Iron Man on, though, and so much desperate rage in Tony’s eyes, Bucky wasn’t sure who’d win if it came to a fight.  Frankly, the thought that it _could_ was so fucking unreal and upsetting.  This was insane.

Their family was falling apart before his eyes, just as he’d been told it could, just as he’d feared it would.

And he couldn’t be the cause of that, no matter how hurt he was.

“Guys, come on,” Clint said, ending what felt like an eternity of awful silence.  “Not here.  Not like this.”

Tony ignored him, too.  “You don’t trust me?” he said to Bucky.  His voice shook.  “That’s fucking fine, because I don’t trust you.  I don’t trust you, Barnes.  I _never_ have.  You were a monster, remember?  I never wanted you here, never wanted you on the team.  You’re not one of us.  You’re not an Avenger.”  Then the pain that had built up for weeks clearly drove him some place Bucky couldn’t fathom.  It had to be on purpose, what Tony said, used to prey upon Bucky’s insecurities.  It was on purpose and vindictive and vicious.

And Tony fucking _said_ it.  “You’re _nothing_ without Steve.  Tonight was more than enough proof of that.”

Even seeing it coming, Bucky wasn’t prepared to hear it.  Those words cut deep, sliced, went straight to his spirit and stabbed.

But Stark was right about one thing.  He was the goddamn Winter Soldier.  He could shut down his emotions.  He could be the machine.  He could stand there and _not feel a fucking thing._   So he did, every muscle in his body tight, his metal hand and his flesh and blood one clenched into fists at his sides, his breath slow and steady and his pulse calm.  He stared, impassive and unyielding, and he knew – _he knew_ – what a threat he was.  HYDRA had trained him to be that threat, and he always would be.

He wasn’t an Avenger.  Who the fuck was anyone kidding?

Finally Tony seemed to realize he’d gone too far.  There was regret in his eyes now, shame all over his face.  Yet he didn’t back down and didn’t apologize.  He just stood there, holding his ground until Rhodes grasped his shoulder.  “Tony,” the other man called gently, clearly trying to diffuse the situation.  “Tony, come on.”

That broke the tension.  Tony blinked, sniffled, and then turned on his heel.  He stalked away by himself, headed straight out of the med bay.  Rhodes was left there, and he closed his eyes, whispering a curse, before going after his friend.

Clint swore too, dropping a hand to his hip as he turned away.  His frame was tight with fury.  “Is this gonna be it?” he hissed.  “How the team dies?  How everything falls apart?”  No one answered.  No one said a thing, in fact, and not one of them was meeting the gaze of anyone else.  All of that only served to piss Clint off further, and he left, too.  Wanda rushed after him after glancing at Vision with teary eyes.

Vision himself shook his head.  “This serves no purpose,” he declared after a beat of miserable silence.  He looked at what remained of the team.  “It is reckless self-punishment.  What happened to Captain Rogers was tragic, and it has pained everyone very deeply, but I can say with statistical certainty that there was nothing anyone could have done to prevent it.  The administration of SHIELD’s bioagent certainly produced an undesirable side-effect, but the serum is damaged at its core.  If it had been allowed to continue to operate as it was, his life would have been forfeit.  Mr. Stark is right about that.”

“Is he right that nothing else could have been done?” Sam asked wearily.  “Do you know that with statistical certainty?”

Vision’s odd eyes closed a moment.  “No, I do not.”  Sam folded his arms across his chest, nodding like he needed that validation.  “However, I can also say with _complete_ certainty that Mr. Stark did the best he could.  So did Doctor Banner.  So did you, James.”  Bucky lifted his gaze from where it had blankly and unwittingly settled on his boots.  Vision was staring at him.  “You did.  You all made the best choices you could given circumstances that were far beyond our ability to comprehend much less control in the time we had.  There is no one to blame.  No one is at fault.  I have examined the situation thoroughly, analyzed the different permutations of scenarios based on the data I have available, theorized on the choices you could have made.  The route you did take, while perhaps ending in sadness, is the only one that guaranteed Captain Rogers’ survival.  That, of course, is the most important outcome.”

His quiet, calm words hung between them, there for the taking.  The person who perhaps needed to hear them the most wasn’t there.  Bucky realized that and felt sick with guilt for everything.  Vision turned to him again.  “The route we take now, the one to guarantee our survival as a team, also depends upon the choices we make.  These choices are not easy, just as they weren’t before, just as they never have been.  They will also not always be correct, because situations as dangerous and difficult as the one that took our captain from us will always be a threat in our work.  Still, as long as we do the best we can do, we will persevere.  I firmly believe that.  We are a family.  We will perish or thrive based on our capacity to forgive each other,” he said, “and our willingness to forgive ourselves.”  He held Bucky’s eyes for a moment more.  Then he turned and went after Wanda.

It was quiet after that, just a bit like the calm after a violent storm once all of the energy had been spent.  Bucky stood there, feeling numb and hollowed out again.  The nurses who’d been treating Peter went back to work, clearly hesitant and rattled, and shame slithered through Bucky for everything he’d said and done.  Sam came over and grasped his real arm.  “Don’t let it get to you,” he said again, and it took Bucky back to a morning forever ago, the last morning anything had been alright when Sam had caught him watching the news after his first mission with the team and swimming in his doubt.  “Just don’t.”

A part of him knew he shouldn’t.  Still, the pain was ripe inside, and he couldn’t ignore it.  He pulled free of Sam’s grasp and went to Parker where the nurses were now bandaging up the bullet graze.  The kid was pale, really banged up now that Bucky had the chance to truly look, and, God, he was so young.  Bucky felt sick staring at him, and he couldn’t stop his brain from conjuring up all sorts of images of little Steve Rogers, beaten up and looking at him with the same pained but certain eyes.  Saying the same things.

“I had them,” Peter said.  “I really did.  And I’m really fine.  It’s not your fault.  You know, Mr. Stark…”  He shrugged and then winced.  “He just got scared.  That’s it.”

“He shouldn’t have to be,” Bucky murmured.  “I shouldn’t have told you to go in.”

“No, no,” Peter said quickly.  “No.  You had to.  I had to.  We couldn’t let those assholes get that bomb out of there.  You did the right thing.  You did, um…”  He gave a weak smile.  “You did what Cap would have done, I think.  I mean, I’m not an expert or anything, but…  Yeah.  I think he would have made the same call.”

That took Bucky aback.  He didn’t know if Peter meant that or if he was just saying it to make him feel better.  It didn’t matter.  It hurt so much he walked away without another word.


	11. Chapter 11

By the time the team got back to the complex, it was very late.  It was that uncomfortable period of night, where it was too late to be the day before but too early to start the next morning.  Too late to sleep but not nearly time to get up.  Bucky had always hated this time.  It was always where bad shit happened, like watching the boy you loved nearly die from pneumonia with his lungs full of fluid and his brain burning alive from a fever, watching him gasp and choke all while you were praying to God that morning came because that would mean he’d make it.  Like laying in a lab in Italy, strapped to a table and staring into shadows, alone and scared and in pain and wondering if something about you was radically wrong.  Like _knowing_ something was radically wrong as you watched your boyfriend sleep in a tent in Germany, unable to rest yourself even though you’re hurt and exhausted because there was this dark place inside you that hadn’t been there before.  Like sobbing in a cell in the bitter, bitter cold, going mad from torture and brutality and praying to God this time that morning never came so that the fuckers hurting you wouldn’t come back.  Like the long stretch of hours on a mission, standing perfectly still like a statue atop a rooftop in Moscow, rifle in hand and waiting for your mark to leave a party he should have left hours ago just so you could put a bullet in his brain from a hundred yards away.

Like the dead of night in DC, in New York, in Barcelona and Prague and Munich and Zagreb and Bucharest…  Like the dead of night _here,_ staring at your own hands and knowing the blood would never be washed away.  That you could never go back, never be good again, because that dark place inside was all that was left of you now.

“Fucking bullshit,” Bucky hissed, sick of it all as he stalked down the darkened hallway to their suite.  It was quiet.  After a long, tense, silent flight, the other Avengers had all gone their separate ways.  He was here, wearily plodding home and feeling lower than he had in a long time.  He didn’t need the added anguish of his own crap.  He sighed when he reached the doors, staying just out of range of the biometric scanners.  “Friday, is Steve still awake?”

“No,” the AI answered after a brief pause that had felt infinite.  Bucky closed his eyes and slumped.  He felt like even more of a failure for _not_ wanting to face his husband right now, but he didn’t.  “He stayed awake long enough to be certain you were all well, and he tried to wait longer but he fell asleep shortly thereafter.”

That was a relief until he really thought about it.  “Does he know what happened to Parker?”

“Not the details,” Friday quietly replied.  “Before the battle, Mr. Stark instructed me to limit his exposure to information he might find upsetting.”  That was a dickish thing to do, and normally Bucky would have been angry.  Right now he was just grateful.  Steve didn’t need to know how the team had failed to get its shit together again, how everything was falling apart.  Some testament to his efforts to turn the Avengers into something special, into something more than the sum of its screwed-up parts.

Those screwed up parts were all that was left.

Bucky shook the bitter thoughts away.  He was too damn tired to be dealing with this right now, so he stepped into the range of the scanners.  They were invisible as they checked him over and then accepted him.  The door locks clicked open, and he made to go inside.  “Alright.  Gonna go to bed.”

“Sergeant, I would–”

The second the doors parted, it became obvious what Friday was trying to him.  The inside of their suite was dark, but the lamp was on beside the couch.  Fury was sitting there on the sofa.  He’d obviously been waiting a while.  Bucky had no idea how in the world he’d gotten here before Bucky himself had, since he’d been on the helicarrier overseeing the mission in Tibet.  He didn’t give a damn.  “What the hell,” he griped as he stepped inside.  He dropped his bag of gear to the floor by his feet with a thud.  Glaring, he closed the doors behind him before moving deeper into their suite.  “You couldn’t chew me out back on the helicarrier?”

“I didn’t come to chew you out,” Fury said calmly.  He was sitting with his legs crossed at the knee and his hands folded together in his lap, casual as anything.

Bucky sighed.  “Whatever.  It can wait until morning.”  It was rude as anything, but he walked right past the couch without a second thought and headed toward their bedroom.

Fury stood from the couch and came around like he was about to follow him.  At least he was as direct this time as he had been the last time.  And the message was the same, only even more forceful.  “You need to step up.”  Bucky turned around, so miserably low that he scowled viciously before he could stop himself.  Fury was undaunted.  “I need you to step up.  The world needs–”

“Don’t,” Bucky hissed, rounding on him.  “Don’t say it.  I don’t want to hear it.  I know you saw what went on out there tonight.”

“I did.”

“Then you know that I am the _last_ person you should be talking to about this.”

Fury didn’t back down.  Of course.  “You’ve been at Cap’s side longer than anyone.  You know sometimes situations call for tough choices to get the job done, that sacrifices have to be made.  You and Cap have both made those sacrifices in the past.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.  He knew he was being a disrespectful bastard, but he couldn’t summon an ounce of regret or concern at this point.  “Is this where you tell me I did the right thing?  That sending a sixteen year-old kid into nest of HYDRA to reclaim a nuke all by himself was the best choice?  That we’re Avengers and this is the price we have to pay?”

“This is the price.  Rogers knew that when he flew that plane into the ocean.  He knew it when he went up against you to stop Project: Insight.  He knew it when he ran into that building to get those people out even though he had no backup and no idea how bad it was inside.”

Bucky’s eyes flooded with furious tears.  “Fuck you.”

“You made the right call,” Fury said again, utterly undaunted.

“I shouldn’t have made the call at all!” Bucky shouted.  Then he got control of himself again, remembering that Steve was sleeping just down the hall, and lowered his voice.  “That decision…  It shouldn’t have come to me.”

“But it did,” Fury insisted, “and you did exactly what you needed to.”

Apparently this was the part of this fucked-up, miserable night where the world’s greatest spy and intelligence officer just kept saying the same wrong shit over and over again.  Bucky shook his head incredulously.  “You know, the sixteen year-old kid who almost got shot to death told me that, too.  I was more inclined to believe him than you, to tell you the truth, and I didn’t believe him for a second.”  Fury just stared, stoic and utterly shameless.  Bucky stared back until he lost his patience, and then he shook and sputtered.  “This is ridiculous.  You’re _really_ here right now, in the middle of the night after a mission we barely pulled off, to give me a pat on the back and tell me that I did the right thing so I’ll feel good and become team leader?  That’s just…  Christ Almighty.  Didn’t your spies report back to you that Stark and I practically mauled each other after the op?  He’s furious!  Why the hell would he ever want me giving orders?”

“He’ll get used to it,” Fury replied simply.  “Underneath all the emotional crap going on right now, he wants you to.  It’ll take pressure off of him, and he wants absolution more than anything else.  Like I said, he’s great at a lot of stuff, but making decisions like that…  He can’t handle the guilt, and he knows it.  Deep down, I think he’d be fine with you taking the reins.  I think they all would be.”

“You got this all figured out, don’t you,” Bucky spat.  Fury still just stood there.  It was infuriating, how impassive he was.  How immutable his ideas were.  He wasn’t smug (at least, not obviously), and he wasn’t condescending.  He was just certain.  In a way, that was so much worse, and Bucky’s voice broke as he went on.  “Christ, what do you want from me?  I told you!  I can’t be Captain America!  You hear me?  It’s _never_ going to happen!”

“Why not?” Fury demanded.  Was he really going to ask that?  Was he really going to demand Bucky’s reasoning with his husband blind and incapacitated and the team falling apart at the seams?  As if he could read Bucky’s thoughts and he disapproved of them, Fury shook his head.  “Ignore the emotional knee-jerk reaction.  Take Rogers out of the equation.”

“You did not just fucking say that,” Bucky snarled.

Fury didn’t budge.  “Pretend he’s fine with it.”

Bucky growled, “Did you talk to him?  Did you?”

Fury’s reply was even and a little annoyed.  “No.  But assuming you finally get the guts to, and assuming he’s on board, which he will be, what’s stopping you?  Why can’t you pick up the shield and take his place?”

“It’s not my place to take,” Bucky retorted.  “It’s not.  It’s _Steve’s_.  Why can’t you see that?  Why can’t you accept it?”

“Because the world needs Captain America.”

“Don’t give me that shit!”  Bucky’s tone rose again, but this time he couldn’t bring himself to keep quiet.  “I’m so fucking tired of hearing it, of even thinking about it!  It hangs over everything all the time! I don’t give a damn about the world right now!  We’ve given enough for it!  Steve’s _blind_ because of it!”

“And I’m sure he’d be the first to tell you that if he could do it all over again, go back into that burning building to save those people, he would.”

Back to that cruel shit again.  Bucky didn’t want to hear it.  “Stop.  Enough’s enough.”  He stepped back to Fury, practically seething.  “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don’t want to be Captain America?  That maybe, after all this hell we’ve been through, I want to rest?  That Steve more than anyone _deserves_ rest?”

“No,” Fury said simply.

How damn sure he was acting was beyond aggravating.  Bucky wanted to throttle him.  It was hard not to, considering how threatened and frustrated he was.  “He’ll need me,” he said sharply.  “He’s not going to be able to live the life he had.  For God’s sake, this is a huge transition for him and for me!  He’ll need me at his side to help him learn to adapt to this, not out fighting aliens and terrorists and whatever the hell else you need done.  My first duty is to him, not to you or anyone else.”

“If that was really true, then we wouldn’t be having this argument.  You’d have done what needed to be done like he always does, like he’d want, and taken his place weeks ago.  You wouldn’t be so scared of doing what’s right.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky snapped again, eyes filling with hot tears.  This was pointless, and he felt so low and scraped raw.  “How dare you.  You selfish bastard.  You don’t know what he wants.  You don’t know him, and you don’t know me.”

“I know the truth,” Fury insisted.  “I’ve learned enough in my time trying to protect this world to know that there’s always going to be another battle no matter how many wars you win.  And I’ve learned we always need soldiers to fight it.”

Bucky shook his head.  “Yeah?  Well, the only thing I’ve learned from this whole damn experience is how little _Steve_ means.  Captain America’s important.  Captain America has to be preserved so people feel safe and the Avengers can survive.  Captain America’s this invaluable, invincible symbol that can’t be allowed to die.  But Steve?  He’s just a man, so he’s goddamn expendable, and how he feels and what he wants and needs is irrelevant.  So I’m done, you hear me?  I was hardly an Avenger to begin with, and I quit.  I’m not Captain America.  I can’t fix your problems.  I can’t make everyone else feel better.  That’s not my responsibility.  My first and only responsibility is to _Steve_.  So show yourself out.”

Fury didn’t.  Instead he boldly crossed the space between them and grabbed Bucky’s metal arm.  Bucky could have wrenched it away, again could have done much worse, and it took all the restraint he had not to succumb to the violence snarling and snapping inside.

Fury looked like he could see the struggle and was utterly confident of the outcome.  “You’re better than this,” he said.  “Maybe you weren’t made the way he was, but you were made for war, made to be a symbol just the same.  In some ways, maybe your symbol is even stronger, because it was born out of ice rather than fire, born and reborn, and you had to walk through so much darkness to see that happen.  People know that.  They admire that.  That’s why I know that you’re the only chance we have to keep this going.  Rogers built it, yes, but you can save it.”

All the sudden the anger just abandoned him.  Maybe it was Fury’s bold, ardent grasp on his arm, this arm that was still a symbol of so much violence.  Maybe it was the confident gleam to his eye.  Maybe it was his words, manipulative as they were but true, so goddamn _true_.  It didn’t matter.  The urge to fight fled him, and Fury was right.  All that was left was fear.  “Don’t,” Bucky begged.  “Please.”

Fury didn’t heed him.  “You’re an Avenger,” he insisted quietly.  “You and Rogers.  The first Avengers.  The first heroes, the ones we all grew up learning about, the ones against which every hero since has been measured.  You fought HYDRA, saved the world.  You shaped our future.  And now you want to turn your back on it?  Now you think he wants to just because he took a bad hit?  Because he got knocked down?”  He shook his head.  “You want to talk about what I’ve learned?  If I’ve learned _anything_ through all of this, through everything that’s happened since we found him in the ice, it’s that Steve Rogers doesn’t quit.  He’ll get back up.”

“Don’t,” Bucky whispered.  “Please stop using him against me.”

“He’ll get back up, different maybe, but not where it counts. And when he does, he’ll be out there doing what he can to make this world better.  It doesn’t matter that he can’t see or that his leg’s all screwed up or that he doesn’t have the serum making him strong and fast anymore.  Or that he can’t have the life he used to.  He’ll make it work.”  Fury paused, sighed, and that hard veneer of authority slipped.  There again the signs of his age, of the toll _his_ life had taken on him, peeked through.  That cooled Bucky’s unrest even more.  “Nothing lasts forever.  Things change, and we can’t go back.  I said that to you before.  And we either fight it and hurt ourselves and everyone around us in the process, or we accept it and do the best we can with what we got.  That’s you, for better or for worse.  I’d like to think for better, but it’s really up to you.  You can run away from it, take Rogers and rest like you say you want to and leave everything and everyone behind.  Or you can stand up, be a leader, be _their_ leader, and start over.”

In the dim light, Fury’s expression was oddly unguarded.  He seemed open, like he truly cared about more than just the job.  Like Bucky wasn’t simply a means to an end.  Like he was more than a tool to ensure the survival of his superhero team and the initiative he’d championed to create it.  Then Fury turned, and that very human moment ended.  With a rustle of leather, he headed to the door.  “I wouldn’t worry about Rogers,” he said as he opened it.  “I’ll find something for him to do while you’re out fighting aliens and terrorists and doing what you need to.  Right?  That’s what it’s all about?”  Bucky just stared, reeling.  “And make your peace with Stark.  As much as the team needs you, it needs him, too, and it needs the both of you working together.”

And Fury left, with that very obvious order directed at his presumed team captain dangling in the quiet.  Bucky stood there, too utterly overwhelmed to be angry anymore.  Then he found himself turning, walking down the hallway toward their bedroom.  The lights were on inside, not as bright as they could be but on.  Steve was lying in bed, curled on his side and sound asleep.  It took Bucky a beat to connect the lights being left on to the fact that to Steve it might not make difference and that maybe Steve left them on for him, too.  It didn’t matter either way.  He came inside quietly and then quickly, methodically stripped off his tac gear.  Suddenly it started feeling constrictive, too tight and too heavy, and he dumped it all haphazardly on the floor, the combat jacket and trousers and gloves and under armor.  His boots and the weapons he kept in hidden places.  Once he was down to his boxers, he turned off the lights and went to the bed.

He didn’t get in.  He was tired, exhausted, hurting so much, and seeing Steve like he was…  Steve wasn’t quite peaceful either, breathing hitched a bit, face twisted in something of a grimace.  Bucky sighed, leaning down and brushing his metal hand over Steve’s hair, down the line of his unshaved jaw, before pulling the duvet up around him tighter.  Steve didn’t settle more, but he didn’t stir, either.  Bucky closed his eyes against more tears.  He was so fucking sick of crying.  It didn’t do anything.  Didn’t make a damn thing better.  Nothing would.

 _Accept it.  Move on._   His eyes moved of their own accord to where Steve’s shield still sat by the wall, silver and shining in the faint light.  It had been touched since Steve had fallen, so it was still unpainted.  A blank canvas.

_Be Captain America._

He looked away and found himself walking on wobbly feet and sitting shakily in one of the lounge chairs by the window, the one where Steve had spent so much time when he’d been first recovering.  Where he’d fumbled to eat, struggled to adjust, fought to understand the extent of the damage done to him.

_Sometimes the best we can do is start over._

Bucky looked outside, to the moonlight on the grounds, and sagged into the chair.  This became yet another one of those times, the endless stretch between night and morning where he was haunted and alone and scared and longing.  He never slept.

* * *

Eventually he must have, though, because he opened his eyes to the sun peeking through their bedroom window over the tree line.  It was obnoxiously bright and getting brighter, and Bucky groaned.  He turned his head away from it, wincing at the kink in his neck, and leaned up.  Falling asleep in the chair hadn’t been the smartest idea, particularly with a perfectly good bed not more than six feet away.

A perfectly good _empty_ bed.  Bucky blinked, muddled, head feeling like it was filled with wool.  The disaster of the mission from the night before and all of the surrounding arguing came back like a slap.  More muscles complained as he stood and gracelessly staggered to the bed.  Steve wasn’t there, the sheets and duvet rumpled and shoved clumsily aside.  “Steve?” Bucky gasped.  His voice was hoarse, and his mouth tasted like shit, and his eyes were dry and his head was throbbing, and everything hurt.  Frantic, he looked around.  Steve hadn’t gotten up first since his accident.  “Stevie?”

“Captain Rogers has gone to the common kitchen,” Friday declared.

Bucky squinted, looking up at the ceiling like Friday was actually there.  “What?” he gasped.  Sure enough, Steve’s crutches were gone from where he’d usually left them on his side of the bed.  A little panicked, Bucky rushed to the bathroom, but Steve wasn’t there, either.  A wet towel had fallen from one of the hooks beside the door, and there was water on the tile floor outside the shower.  “How?”

“With my directions and assistance,” Friday replied.  “Once he was ready to go, Mr. Wilson met him outside your bedroom and escorted him.  He didn’t wish to wake you.”

 _Steve got up, got dressed on his own, and went out by himself._   That was…  Bucky didn’t know what to think of it.  Every day since Steve fell, Bucky had helped him in the morning.  His role had diminished now of course to simply being present in case Steve needed him (and quite often Steve still did).  This sudden burst of independence felt odd, incredibly wonderful and encouraging but unsettling at the same time.  It cut too close to what Fury had said, all the awful bullshit Fury had said that he didn’t want to think about.

So he decided not to.  He was rank with stale sweat, still sooty from the fight, and in desperate need of a shower himself.  He took one, and he should have rushed through it like he had most days for the last few weeks, but he didn’t.  He couldn’t.  He let himself sink into a sense of numbness, let the scalding hot water ease the soreness away.  It felt decent.  After too long, he shut the water off and dried himself.  Brushed his teeth and tugged a comb through his hair.  Didn’t bother shaving.  Dressed.  Tried to gather himself.  For a few minutes, he lingered in the bathroom, staring yet again at his slightly haggard expression.  Steve’s dog tags were there around his neck, resting on his Henley right above his sternum.  His wedding ring glinted in the bright lights of the bathroom where it hung on the chain.  He stared at it a moment, forcing himself to feel nothing because that was vastly preferable to the geyser of pain hissing under the surface.  He grasped the dog tags and stuffed them under his shirt like always before leaving.

Walking down the hallways toward the common room brought up this awful feeling of failure.  He couldn’t be sure; his memories of his time with HYDRA were always fuzzy, but he was pretty sure the sickening sensations of guilt, dread, and shame were the same now as they had been when he’d been dragged before his handlers after missions that had ended poorly.  And last night’s mission had certainly gone that way, the terrible argument afterwards notwithstanding _._   He didn’t want to face the team.  At the very least, Sam had to be there.  Sam and Steve.  But it was unlikely they’d be the only two.

As he got closer, his suspicions were confirmed.  He heard Wanda’s voice.  Natasha saying something in reply.  The television was playing, and it sounded like one of the many twenty-four hour news networks.  Bucky recognized the anchor’s voice.  “We’re in the process of confirming facts, but at this point we can say with certainty that the Avengers were dispatched last night to a remote, mountainous location in Tibet.  Some blurry video of the team infiltrating what is now believed to be a terrorist stronghold has been leaked, possibly by the terrorists themselves.  Neither the Chinese government nor SHIELD has made any official comment.  It’s difficult to tell much from these poor-quality images, but it seems that Captain America was yet again absent from the fight.  The Winter Soldier, however, seems to have rejoined the team after his noticeable absence in Myanmar.  We’re going live to CNN’s SHIELD correspondent Jocelyn Sanders, who’s outside SHIELD Headquarters in Manhattan.  Jocelyn, people have been worried about where Captain America is and how he’s been doing since he was hurt weeks ago.  This is now the Avengers’ second mission without him.  Is it time to be more than just concerned?”

Bucky paused outside the door, listening.  He could picture Ms. Sanders.  She’d been SHIELD’s “correspondent” (if SHIELD had an official press correspondent; he still had no idea) as long as Bucky had been at the complex.  She smirked when she talked sometimes, and she liked to talk about him.  “Well, Laura, as you know there’s been no official statement from SHIELD regarding Cap’s status.  That’s not entirely uncommon when it comes to the Avengers, but at this point we would have expected to see Cap back out there.  Tony Stark assured us weeks ago that he’d bounce back, and we’ve seen him take what looked like serious hits before–”

“Pardon my interruption, Jocelyn, but the fall Captain Rogers took in New York last month was extreme.  You’re aware that reports have leaked from some hospital staff at Mount Sinai that he very nearly died.”

“Those remain unconfirmed rumors.” Ms. Sanders replied.

“Which seem significantly more likely to be true given that no one has seen Cap since he went down,” the anchorwoman responded.  Bucky sighed, closing his eyes wearily and leaning against the wall in the hallway.  He liked it better when the news had been just the news without so much damn talk and speculation.  “Is there any indication on your end that he’ll be back out with the team soon?  It’s fairly common knowledge that the super soldier serum enhanced how quickly he recovers from injury, and it’s been more than three weeks since he was hurt.  Experts are speculating he should have been back out there by now.”

“As of yet there’s been no announcement, but, again, it’s not uncommon for SHIELD to play its hand close to its chest.  I’m confident there will be some sort of press conference forthcoming, considering the unrest with the latest rounds of footage from Tibet.”

“Right.  What do you make of the Winter Soldier’s presence with the team last night?”

“Unsettling in a number of ways,” Sanders said, and Bucky bit his cheek hard.  “There still hasn’t been universal acceptance of the Soldier as part of the Avengers on the part of the American public.  Plus, while he’s been excused for his crimes on American soil, as you know the international community hasn’t been as wholly accommodating, including the Chinese.  Given his previous two appearances as an Avenger were for battles on American soil, the issue of his involvement in the global scene hasn’t come up until now.”

“And Beijing is unhappy?”

“Not formally that we’ve been able to determine, but it remains to be seen what impact, if any, Barnes’ continued inclusion could have on the Avengers as an international response team.  Captain America was the one who really championed Barnes’ joining, and without him there, it just makes Barnes stick out like a sore thumb and Cap’s absence all that much more striking.  And we know from Barnes’ previous outings as an Avenger that he seemed tentative on the field.”

“Which, then, begs the question yet again as to why Rogers wasn’t there to keep things running smoothly and to lend his support and credibility to Barnes’ placement on the team.”

“Exactly.”

“And why Barnes _was_ there.  They’re married.  If Rogers _is_ still recovering, wouldn’t it be more appropriate for him to be at his husband’s side?”

“Without knowing the full situation and the state of their relationship, it’s impossible to tell.  I don’t think Barnes would go out without Rogers’ blessing.  It’s pretty obvious he thinks the world of Cap, their intimate relationship aside.  Then again, who knows for sure with the amount of damage HYDRA did to him.”

This so-called report was degrading into stupid gossip.  “Given there’s been no statement as to how the battle last night went, we still don’t know if things have settled down with the team, though that seems unlikely without Rogers there.  The whole situation is once again exploding on social media.  People are concerned, and maybe rightly so, that the Avengers can’t function without Captain America, which only amplifies the worry that something serious is happening about which the public is being purposefully kept in the dark.  Tony Stark and Stark Industries have been silent.  SHIELD’s silent.  The US government’s silent.  The public has a right to know why it seems like everything’s different and–”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”  That was Tony’s voice.  Bucky opened his eyes.  Everything went silent inside the common room.  Clearly someone had shut the television off.  The tense quiet went on for a few more seconds.  Then there was a heavy sigh.  “Steve, don’t listen to anything they’re saying.  It’s bullshit. We have everything under control.”

There was another pause and then Steve spoke.  His tone was a little shaky.  “Someone needs to tell people what’s going on.”

“Don’t worry,” Tony insisted.  Bucky could hear him moving around.  “Come on.  Let’s eat.”

Sam and Natasha responded quietly.  So did Vision and Wanda.  They asked Steve what he wanted for breakfast while Rhodes and Bruce talked about helping him over to the table.  Bucky just stood there, frozen, feeling so fucking low again, and he just wanted to run.

“Hey.”

Startled, he ripped around.  Clint was there, dressed in jeans and an old t-shirt.  His face was bruised and he looked exhausted, though maybe more emotionally than physically.  He gave a weak smile.  “Never thought I’d see the day I could sneak up on you.”  Bucky stared uselessly, fighting down the Soldier inside, trying not to seem upset.  Clint’s expression softened in sympathy.  “Come on.  It’s okay.  No reason to hide out here.”

Before he could protest, he was being led inside the common room.  Everyone looked at him the second he stepped inside, everyone except Steve who noticed the conversation die and the tone shift but of course couldn’t tell why.  He was puzzled, glancing around uselessly.  “What’s goin’ on?”

 _Jesus._ Shaking the sense that he didn’t belong was even harder now than it had been last night, which was bullshit, because right here and now wasn’t out fighting with the team.  This was _their_ home, and these were _their_ friends, and he was Steve’s husband, and he sure as hell had a place here.  All this awful self-doubt was just poison, making him look away the second Stark’s eyes caught his.  Stark looked away, too, and the tension between them was terrible.  “Guys?” Steve asked from where Sam had gotten him seated at the breakfast table.  “What…”

 _Get a goddamn grip._  Shaking himself loose of his disquiet, Bucky briskly walked across the room to the table and touched Steve’s head.  Steve jumped, coiled tightly himself, and looked up.  Everyone noticed it, but Bucky ignored it.  He leaned down and kissed Steve on the forehead.  “Mornin’,” he murmured.

Steve reached up, grasping his left hand like he needed to touch the smooth metal to be sure it was him.  “Buck?  What’s the matter?  Did you hear what the news–”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bucky said.

Steve frowned, and it wasn’t out of concern so much as out of aggravation, the same frustration Bucky had seen before when they’d been sitting out by the tree.  “I’m not stupid.  I know something happened last night.  I know things aren’t going well out there.  And I knew it before hearing what the news people are saying.  I’ve known it for days, so can someone just be honest with me and tell me what’s going on?”

“I said it’s fine, Steve.”  That was Tony, and Bucky startled again, turning to see the inventor carrying a plate over.  He’d been filling it from the spread of breakfast foods they’d obviously had delivered.  He set the plate down in front of Steve, and Sam was quick to get him utensils.

Steve’s face darkened even more, his anger so obvious where it never used to be.  “You guys treat me like I’m a goddamn child,” he muttered.  He pushed the plate away, nearly knocking over a glass of milk Natasha had just set down in the process.  She frowned, grabbing the glass.

And Bucky was about to say something to smooth this over, but he never got a chance.  “Can I talk to you?” Tony asked, trying to say with his eyes what he couldn’t with his mouth.  They were silently offering a truce, potentially only momentarily to convince Bucky to come with him.  Bucky had no choice but to do it; anything else would just tip Steve off even more that things weren’t right.  So he just nodded, ran his hand over Steve’s shoulder to comfort him a moment before reluctantly moving away.  The team immediately converged on Steve, which made Bucky feel even more like a coddling asshole considering how completely displeased Steve seemed about everything.  He couldn’t watch to see how it went after that with Stark waiting, so he followed Tony outside the common room and back into the corridor.

Once they were there, they didn’t talk.  All the tension that had dogged them before had come with them now, and neither of them seemed capable of breaking it.  Tony just stared at him, and _yet again_ he stared back, not sure if the other man was angry or frustrated or ashamed or what.  It was all of that and more, he supposed, and everything was combining together into a heaping pile of ugliness.  Irritation started to win out while the quiet stretched on, and Tony just looked as pained, lost, and frustrated as he felt.

Thankfully someone broke the silence.  “Hey!”

Bucky turned and spotted Peter coming toward him.  A brief look of dismay crossed the kid’s face at seeing the two of them (and probably picking up on the discomfort of the situation, because that had to be ridiculously obvious).  Still, he wasn’t daunted, even if the argument from last night was looming and threatening a continuation.  He also didn’t look too bothered by yesterday’s injury, which was a huge relief.  He approached them with a spring in his step.  “Hi, guys.  Is there breakfast?  I’m starved.  Nothing like a good fight to get the old metabolism going, am I right?”

Neither of them said anything.  Peter bounced a bit before going on.  “Anyway, Mr. Stark, I had a thought last night after the mission, you know, about maybe how we can help Cap?  You ever seen that really old show _Star Trek: the Next Generation?_   I was watching Netflix when we got back and decided to try it out.  Cool show.  It got me wondering about–”

“Not now, Pete, okay?” Tony said, finally tearing his eyes from Bucky to glance at Parker.  “We can talk about it later.  Go eat while it’s hot.”

Peter grinned, not at all bothered at being dismissed.  “Sure, cool.  Yeah.  Later, Mr. Stark!”  He jumped back into motion, disappearing into the common room.

Tony rolled his eyes.  “It’s constant with that kid,” he commented, shaking his head a little.  It was fond, though, and a little grateful.  It had cleared the air, and now Tony cleared his throat, shaking himself out just a bit like he was actually loosening up.  “So…  I’m just gonna forego with beating around the bush.”  He sighed, averting his eyes.  “I’m sorry.”

Bucky jerked a bit.  He hadn’t been expecting that at all.  Tony was still staring at a point beyond Bucky’s shoulder as he went on.  “I’m sorry about what I said last night.  I’m sorry I blamed you for what happened to Parker, and I’m sorry…  I didn’t mean what I said, about you not belonging with the team.  About you being nothing without Steve.  Christ, that was terrible.  I’m really sorry.  I was scared and upset and…  Everything just hit.  I should not have taken it out on you.”

Hearing all that was…  It felt surprisingly good.  It didn’t wipe away all the pain between them, but it went a long way toward starting the process.  “I’m sorry, too,” Bucky heard himself say.  “I…  I know what happened to Steve wasn’t your fault.  You did the best you could.  I know that.  It’s just–”

“Your heart and your head don’t agree.”  Bucky met Tony’s gaze.  He nodded.  Tony nodded, too.  “I know how it is.  That’s how I felt about you, how I still feel about you sometimes.  I told you once a while back, I think.  I’m trying.  I guess…”  He exhaled slowly again, deflating.  “I guess that’s the best we can do sometimes.  Try.”  Bucky nodded, more slowly this time.  Tony looked away again.  “Thing is, though…  It’s occurring to me that _what_ we’re trying to do matters, too.”  He shook his head.  Bucky watched him bite his lip and struggle with his emotion.  It seemed like he wouldn’t say anything else for a moment, but he did.  “I just…  I was so _angry_ at myself.  I was angry at everything.  I had to fix him.  I had to do everything I could to do that, and anyone or anything that got in my way was just wrong.  I put blinders on.”  Then he grimaced.  “I shouldn’t have…  You were right to be pissed at me.  I shouldn’t have talked to Steve yesterday.  Not like I did.”

Bucky didn’t follow for a second.  With everything that had happened, he’d completely forgotten that Tony had come into their suite to tell Steve about his new idea to fix the serum.  “You really don’t need my permission to talk to him.”

“No,” Tony agreed quietly, “but I also don’t need to keep chasing after longshots.”

Bucky frowned at the implication.  “So your idea with the Vita-rays and Project: Rebirth…  It won’t work.”

Tony didn’t answer right away.  Bucky thought for a moment that it was because he was trying to decide whether or not to be honest with him, but it was more than that.  It was a struggle to be honest with himself.  “No,” he said after a bit.  “I mean, I don’t know.  Is it possible?”  He paused again, grimacing.  “Yeah.  Definitely.”

“But it’s dangerous,” Bucky said.  He couldn’t keep the tense edge from his tone.

Tony hesitated, but he had to nod.  He had to accept it, it seemed.  “That’s why I…  I didn’t want you to know.  It took a lot of cutting through my own crap last night to force myself to realize that.  And I’m sorry I tried to…  Jesus.”  Tony looked down, suddenly battling with his emotions.  “I did try to go around you.  He was vulnerable and I…  I shouldn’t have.  I’m sorry.”

Bucky probably should have been angry at that, but he wasn’t.  This was hardly a surprise.  He’d figured that last night.  And he knew Tony hadn’t done anything maliciously.  He hadn’t done it to hurt anyone.  Now, with Tony’s confession and apology right out in the open, that was so much easier to see.  “It’s alright,” he said.

“No,” Tony replied.  “No, it’s not.  This can’t go on.”

Bucky didn’t know how to interpret that.  “You’re giving up?”  He wanted his voice to be strong, but it came out twisted with emotion and rough.

Tony seemed to consider that for a moment, eyes glazed where they were focused on the floor.  “I’m…  I’m not going to quit, no, but it’s not fair to Steve to keep on like this.  He deserves better than to have us – have me – dangle hope in his face only to have it ripped away when I can’t deliver.  We have to move past this.”

“Stark–”

“I also wanted to tell you that I’m okay with you giving orders out there.”

That felt like it came out of nowhere, though, again, it shouldn’t have.  This was basically what Fury had predicted last night, that Tony wanted someone else in command.  Bucky grimaced, wondering again if Fury had gone to see Tony after talking with him.  “What?”

Tony nodded, though he was tense anew.  “If you want to call the shots, that’s fine.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Well, it can be.”  Tony stepped closer.  “If… If that’s what we want, to start to look forward instead of back, someone has to lead.  Steve’s never going to let anything go unless the team’s settled.  You know that.”

Bucky did, though he hadn’t thought of it quite that way until now.  It didn’t make him feel better, to be honest.  It was _more_ pressure, not less.  “You’ve been with the team since it formed.  You design all the equipment.  You pay for everything.  You make this happen.  You’ve been at his side, helping him, giving him advice, _building_ this whole thing right along with him.  Don’t you think you should take over?”  That sounded cowardly, and Bucky was pretty sure it was, but he couldn’t stop himself.  Having _Tony_ of all people saying he should take over…  That changed everything even more, made it more undeniable.

And Tony was saying exactly that and more.  “No, I don’t think that.  I don’t think…  I can’t do it.”  He lowered his voice even more.  “Look, when we first got started?  It’s no secret I wanted to be in charge.  You’re right; I was funding everything and making everything, and I was used to having shit go my way and be what I wanted.  But…  Right before New York, Fury told me I wasn’t a team player, and that pissed me off to high heaven, but he was right.  I didn’t _see_ that, though, until Steve showed it to me.  Until Steve showed me what a real leader did.  It’s not about getting your way and having everyone march to your tune.  It’s not even about being right all the time.”

Bucky grimaced.  “Tony–”

“It’s about making the right call even when it feels wrong and living with the consequences of that,” Tony said.  “That’s…  Well, last night showed how shitty I handle that kind of thing.”

“And what makes you think I can handle it any better?” Bucky said, shaking his head.

“Because Steve does, and you helped make Steve into who he is.”  Tony’s voice was strained, but his eyes were bright.  “And he’s helped you become who you are now.  That’s enough for me.”  There was obviously a lot of mixed up emotions behind that, a great deal of unresolved feelings.  Tony exhaled slowly, nodding to himself like he was settling on something.  “Well, we don’t have to figure out the logistics of anything right now.  And nothing’s permanent, right?  I just wanted you to know that that’s how I feel.  So if… if it comes to it, we’re on the same page.”

 _If it comes to it._  Bucky didn’t want to think about it.  He was so tired of the idea.  “Yeah.  Okay.”

“And we shouldn’t be at each other’s throats.  All the junk that’s still between us…  Maybe it needs its due, but not right now.  Steve doesn’t need us fighting or not talking or trying to glare each other to death.  He needs us to get along.  He needs all of us to do better.”

“Yeah.  I’m sorry.  Again.”  _I’m sorry for everything._

“Me, too.”  Tony actually managed a hint of a smile.  “The only way we get through this is together, right?  Steve always drives that sentimental crap in during training.  Sticking together and having each other’s back and all that jazz.  And he’s right, unfortunately.”  That smile got a bit slyer.  “So let’s go back and eat and smile and do whatever it takes to help him feel okay.”

Bucky nodded, but his spirits sank, even as Tony tentatively knocked him on the arm in a show of friendly affection and understanding before walking away.   _Help him feel okay.  Not good.  Not great.  Just okay._

Okay seemed like it was light years away when they returned to the others.  Steve’s frustrated mood had turned more than a touch of petulance.  He was still sitting at the table.  Wanda, Peter, and Natasha had moved to the breakfast bar, and they were all eating, chatting, trying not to act uncomfortable or awkward or like they were watching Steve.  Steve, whose shoulders were rigid and whose entire form screamed clenched-up defiance.  A memory came out of the fog in Bucky’s head, one of watching Steve when he’d been younger and smaller, sitting just as he was now in front of a full plate of food at their old, beat-up table in their apartment and stubbornly refusing to eat it with tears pooling in his eyes.  It wasn’t a good memory.  There were times when Steve had struggled so much with his limitations back then.  It wasn’t often that he’d gotten angry or despondent about it, but he had from time to time.  He was only human.  That mask of unwavering strength had seemed so permanent once he’d gotten the serum, but now it was breaking more and more.

“How about we put it this way,” Sam said, catching Bucky’s eyes as Bucky came back over to the table.  Sam was sitting across from Steve and nudging the plate back in his direction.  “If you want to go to Wakanda, you need to eat.”

 _Wakanda._  Christ, with everything that had gone on, Bucky had completely forgotten about that.  And, just like that, hope shot back into his heart.  They were supposed to fly there today.  Shuri was going to look at the serum.  Maybe…  He looked at Tony again, but Tony was just watching with sullen eyes.

“What’d I just say about treatin’ me like a kid,” Steve groused churlishly, but he reached for a fork all the same.

“Then stop acting like one and eat,” Sam replied firmly.  “Pancakes are at twelve o’clock.  Nat cut them up for you.”

Steve frowned.  “I can do that.”

Sam paid him no heed.  “You got eggs and bacon, too.  Milk’s at ten.  Napkin at three.  Clear the plate if you want to go.”

“About that,” Tony said softly.  He leaned onto the bar, eyes sweeping around the room as he did.  “I was, um, thinking, Steve…  If it’s okay with you, I’ll stay behind.”

Steve dropped his fork and turned in his chair to where he thought Tony was by his voice.  He wasn’t too far off.  “What?”

Tony grimaced.  For a second, Bucky thought he was taking the easy way out of something he didn’t want to do, but that wasn’t it.  At least not entirely. “I just…  I have work to do here, and I’ve talked with Shuri and T’Challa quite a bit.  Shuri knows my take on everything.”

“Work to do here,” Steve said.  Then his eyes filled with understanding, and his mouth turned into a tight smile.  “Oh, you mean your other idea?  In case this doesn’t work?”

Tony’s discomfort amplified.  He looked around at the team, but everyone else was silent.  Bucky wasn’t sure what they knew about Tony’s risky plan.  They were all waiting for his reply, like what he said and did now would set the tone, the stage, for how things would proceed.  Like this was a turning point of sorts.  That made sense since Tony had been the most vehemently, almost violently, supportive of fixing the serum.  He’d been the most certain it could be done.  If he changed his stance now…

Bucky knew he would.  After what they’d just talked about, he knew what was coming.  “Yeah, but not just that,” Tony finally said, breaking the painful silence. “I’ve got some other things I’ve been looking into.  Other projects.”

Steve squinted in confusion, narrowing his eyes.  “Like what?”

Tony sought Bucky’s gaze a moment, and Bucky didn’t know what to do or say to support him.  The inventor took a deep breath, pushing himself off the breakfast bar after another beat, doing everything he could to seem nonchalant and calm.  “Like a brace for your leg, for instance.  When I was digging through Stark Industries’ archives for information on my dad’s old Vita-ray generator, I found a project we’d started for the Department of Defense a while back to help soldiers with spinal injuries.  It was too expensive for them to take on, but that doesn’t matter to us.  With the improved tech Banner, Shuri, and I came up with to deal with Bucky’s new arm, we might be able to improve nerve innervation and conduction in your leg.  You’d be able to walk better.”

That was something.  Something unexpected.  Something really good.  The hope in Bucky’s heart changed, grew, turned warm and soft rather than rough, wild, and demanding.  Tony looked at him again, probably searching for his approval, and he gave a tiny nod.  “Bruce thinks it could really work,” Tony then added, turning back to Steve.  “It won’t get rid of the limp entirely, but it might mean you could go without crutches or a cane when you’re wearing it.”

Sam’s whole face lit up, and he glanced among the others before settling excited eyes on Tony.  “Really?”

Tony nodded, and there was something between the two of them.  Something that was timid and new but also soft and hopeful.  A bit of peace and understanding.  “Yeah,” he answered with a nod.  Again he went back to watching Steve, even though Steve wasn’t looking his way anymore.  He went on.  “I thought I’d start working on it today so maybe I’d have something ready for you to test when you get back.  You know, something we can try out.  That’s just the start, Steve.”  That obviously didn’t seem like enough to him, so he came closer, shooting a look over at Parker.  “There are all kinds of ideas we can explore.”  Peter smiled slowly, and Tony smiled back.  “We can figure this out.”

It wasn’t clear what _this_ was, but Steve seemed to come to his own conclusions.  His face scrunched up in obvious pain.  Steve had always been obvious with his emotions, wearing his heart on his sleeve, but it was remarkable to Bucky that without his eyes focusing and functioning, it was possible to see what he was thinking more than ever before.  He squeezed his eyes shut, trembling a bit.  Still, he forced it down all over again, only this time someone else was brave enough to call him out on it.  “Steve,” Natasha said softly.  She’d left her plate and coffee at the breakfast bar, and now she was coming closer, reaching for him.  “Steve, it doesn’t have to mean anything other than what you want it to.  And you don’t have to be okay with it.  It’s alright to be–”

Steve turned away from her, away from Tony, and his arm jerked into the glass of milk he’d almost toppled before.  It went down it with a clank, and the liquid spilled everywhere.  Steve swore bitterly, and just like that he was losing it.  Bucky could see that, see more cracks in that goddamn stoic exterior, as everyone floundered to mop up the mess, as Steve floundered to get control of himself.  “I’m okay,” he gasped a bit sharply as Clint steadied him in his chair.  “I’m okay.  It’s fine.  I’m okay.”  He made his voice quieter, more even and characteristic of his normal tone.  It wasn’t all that convincing, and worried looks and frowns were shared in abundance among them all.  “I’m okay.  I’m okay.”

“Cap.”  That was Clint, pulling Sam’s vacated chair over.  He sat, uncaring that it was still a little wet with milk.  “Cap, listen to me.”

“I’m okay,” Steve declared again.  He was still saying that so much, like a broken record, like a mantra he could keep repeating as if the act of speaking the words aloud could make it true.  “I’m okay.”

“You will be,” Clint said with a nod.  “Can I show you something?”

Out came a bitter, frustrated laugh.  Steve couldn’t restrain that.  “No,” he said, lips all twisted up in a grin that betrayed immense pain.

Clint frowned.  He said nothing, reaching for Steve’s right hand.  He took it carefully, a little forceful but not rough when he pulled it closer and laid it flat to the now clean table with Steve’s palm up.  He reached up to his right ear, which was strange as hell, before grasping Steve’s hand again.  “You don’t need to see it,” he said.  “Just feel it.”  He put something in Steve’s palm before closing his fingers around it.  Bucky couldn’t tell what it was.  The whole thing just seemed bizarre.

Steve obviously thought that as well, grimacing and wordlessly objecting, eyes roving that way they did now, the way Bucky knew would never stop hurting him.  Clint didn’t let him give whatever he’d put into his hand back, so after a few seconds he succumbed and focused on touching it, fingers probing.  That grimace turned tighter with more confusion.  “I don’t get it.  What is it?”

“It’s a hearing aid,” Clint said simply, staring at his captain. 

Steve’s face fractured.  “What?” he whispered.

Clint gave a gentle smile.  “I’m deaf.”

Everyone was looking at him, shocked.  Everyone except for Natasha.  Her eyes were filled with sad understanding instead.  Underneath his surprise, Bucky supposed that made sense.  She’d probably known this very well-kept secret the whole time, considering her friendship with Clint went back years.  She watched keenly as Steve digested the truth, as Clint went on and explained.  “Well, partially deaf.  Enough for it to be a major problem for me.  I have been for years.”

Peter shook his head.  He’d come over from the breakfast bar, and his eyes were as wide as saucers.  “Dude…  How?”

Wanda was completely flabbergasted, shaking her head and regarding Clint with wide eyes.  _“When?”_

Clint turned to her before settling his gaze on Natasha.  “Happened on an op years ago.  Same kind of scenario this, actually.  Got overrun trying to cover STRIKE’s escape from a fight that was going south.  There were too many hostiles, and a grenade hit too close.  Next thing I know, I’m waking up in medical on the helicarrier, and everything’s ringing.  And then when the ringing stopped there was just… not much.  The docs said – _said,_ as in they wrote everything down for me because I couldn’t hear a damn thing they were saying – they told me the damage was permanent.  Eighty percent hearing loss in both ears.”

Bucky just stared, watching as Clint took his hearing aid out of Steve’s palm.  The device was flexible, flesh-colored, and _tiny._   As he fitted it back into his ear canal, it was barely discernible at all.  Unless you knew it was there, you would have never have picked up on them, hence why none of them ever had.  It was incredible.  Clint sighed.  “After it happened and all my other injuries healed up, I fell hard.  I was depressed.  I was angry.  I was scared.  I was terrified everything would be different, that I couldn’t be who I was before.  And I felt so alone, so useless.  It hurt more than anything I’d ever experienced.  It was brutal.”

“Jesus, Clint,” Tony whispered.  He was very pale, like he couldn’t fathom this on top of everything else.  “I’m sorry.”

That was the thing, though.  This seemingly earth-shattering revelation was just like anything else to Clint.  “You don’t have to apologize,” he said to Tony, to all of them.  “Okay?  I don’t need apologies.”  He took Steve’s hand between his own and squeezed it.  “You know why, Cap?  Because there’s nothing to feel sorry about.  Some things changed.  Other things didn’t.  I could still be who I was.  I could still help.  But I needed help myself to do that, and realizing that was hard.  Nat helped me get my shit together.  Fury got me into some programs that helped even more.  I learned ASL.  I learned to lip read.  It was like a kick to my pride, but I got these hearing aids, and I never looked back.  Over the years they got so much smaller and so good to the point where you guys never even noticed, did you.”  It wasn’t a question.  And it was completely true.  Clint went on.  “I learned to accept it and _not_ just to live with it.  What does that mean, anyway?  Learning to live with it.  _It_ was me, and I didn’t want to think of myself as a disability or a broken guy or a liability or any of that.  I didn’t want to feel sorry for himself.  So I didn’t.  Screw learning to live with it.”  He smiled.  “You gotta learn to let it be a part of who you are without having it define what you can be.  You understand?”

Steve didn’t answer.  His eyes were lowered, maybe even closed.  Clint reached over and grasped his shoulder.  “Getting help doesn’t make you weak.  Looking beyond this…  That doesn’t make you weak, either.”

Steve shuddered.  His head dropped, and he seemed to shake, like he was shoring himself up against a storm coming inside.  They all helplessly watched before Wanda came forward.  “Steve, you can let yourself feel pain,” she offered gently.  She seemed to have recovered from her shock, her kind eyes on Bucky before shifting back to Steve.  “We can help you work through it.  You can–”

Suddenly Steve sniffled and shook his head.  “No.”  He looked up, and his eyes seemed too bright.  As unlikely as it was, it seemed to Bucky he was staring right at him, and it seemed like he was speaking to him, too.  “No.  It’s okay, guys.  I’m fine.  I’ll be fine.”  That mask was back up, and the mantra was coming.  “I’m okay.”

“Hello, my friends.”

Everyone turned to the door to the common room.  Of all the people Bucky expected to find there, Thor was not one of them.  To be honest, Bucky had somewhat forgotten that Thor had returned to Asgard to inquire about aid for Steve.  He’d been gone for days, and now that he was suddenly back…  Bucky’s heart leapt in equal parts surprise and hope.

At least until he noticed Thor’s forlorn expression.  _Oh, no._

“Thor,” Wanda called with a weak smile.  “You’re back.”

“Thor?”  Steve was suddenly standing.  He wasn’t steady at all, but he didn’t complain as Clint took his arm and helped him keep his balance.  Steve looked around, clearly trying to find his friend.  “Hi.”

“Peace.  You’ve no need to stand on my account,” Thor said, venturing deeper into the room.  He was still dressed in his customary armor, with Mjölnir loosely held in his hand.

Steve coughed and then grunted, taking a few steps with Clint’s help in Thor’s direction.  “No need, but I can,” he gasped, a bit winded though whether that was from pain, excitement, or effort, Bucky didn’t know.  “Welcome home.  How was your trip?”

“Unpleasant,” the demigod quietly declared, looking amongst the team as if he was trying to gauge how welcome his presence truly was right then.  “And I have news.”

“Unpleasant?” Steve repeated, shaking his head.  “What…”

Thor glanced at Bucky, clearly trying to determine if Steve knew the reason for his return to Asgard.  Bucky shook his head.  He’d never told Steve anything.  He hadn’t had it in him to give Steve another reason to hope.  In retrospect, that had likely been the right course, but it wasn’t going to go over well now with Steve already feeling so frustrated and low.  Thor exhaled slowly.  He came even closer, setting his hammer to the table before grasping Steve’s shoulders.  “I went to Asgard to try and procure medicines for you,” he admitted quietly. 

Steve’s face wrinkled in puzzlement.  “You…”  Then he frowned, shaking his head.  “God, nobody told me.  Damn it.  What the hell?”

“We didn’t want to hurt you,” Sam admitted.  “We didn’t…”  He didn’t continue to excuse their actions.  Tony shook his head, and Natasha looked ill.  Bucky closed his eyes for a moment.  He just wanted to give up.

Steve blinked a few times.  Once again he put the implications together, and his expression settled into tense sadness anew.  “I take it then that you’re coming back empty-handed.”

Thor’s lowered his gaze, practically shameful.  “I tried, Steve.  I tried as much as I dared.  I argued with my father and the elders of Asgard.  I explained to them that you are most worthy of our care and respect, that I gladly follow your lead in battle and in all matters, that you are my equal.  I said all of this, yet they would not grant my wishes and allow you access to our treatments.  I cannot tell you how disgusted and disappointed I am.”

“They wouldn’t help?” Peter asked incredulously.  “I thought…”  He, too, didn’t finish when Tony shook his head and looked down.

“I beseeched my father.  Begged him.  He would not…” Thor said quietly.  There was a great deal of shame in his voice.  “He had no compassion and refused my requests.  I am sorry.  I am so very sorry.”

After that, the room went silent.  No one spoke.  No one moved.  Everyone was watching Steve, and Steve in turn was staring ahead, eyes glazed and directed at a point over Thor’s shoulder.  Time slowed to an absolute crawl as they all waited and wondered if this could be it, if this would be the place where hope died.  If this was where, at long last, their captain started to grieve.

It wasn’t.  Steve sighed, gathered himself, and donned a smile.  He pulled away from Clint and limped unassisted the short distance between him and Thor.  Then he fumbled to lay a hand on Thor’s shoulder.  The fact that he missed touching him at first made such an expression of anguish pass over Thor’s face, one that, of course, Steve couldn’t see.  “You did what you could,” Steve said.  “I’m grateful for that.”

Thor wasn’t satisfied.  How could he be?  How could _any_ of them be?  “No, Steve, my friend.  My brother.  Give the word, and I’ll go back,” he swore, gripping Steve more firmly.  “I will make them listen to me.  I will refuse to accept any decision other than the one we require.  I will fight harder.  And I will do more if I have to, force them if I must–”

“No,” Steve said.  He shook his head and gently pulled away from Thor.  “No, I can’t ask that.  These are your people.  He’s your father.”

“He is not the man I respect and admire,” Thor replied.  “Not if he is turning a blind eye to suffering when there is help we could give.  Not if he is succumbing to stubbornness and prejudice.”

Steve grinned again, albeit it more weakly.  “You’ve done enough.”  Clumsily he stepped away.  Once more his bad leg threatened to give out, but it didn’t.  He reached back to table where he thought his crutches were.  He wasn’t that close.  That was even more goddamn painful, that Clint had to get them for him and help him get them in place.  Everyone watched, silent and pained and paralyzed with helplessness.  Steve sniffled after a second, testing his balance, and Clint backed off.  “Hey, Buck?” he called then.  “Can you help me back to our suite?  Gotta get ready for the trip.  We’re still going, right?”

Bucky didn’t know if that was directed at him, but he answered anyway.  “Sure, Steve.  We’re goin’.” 

“Okay.”  He struggled with his crutches a moment until Bucky helped a bit.  Then he settled himself, heading across the wooden floor with a slow, mostly steady _clunk thud clunk thud_ that echoed for how vacuously silent the common room still was.  He made it to the door, Bucky at this side, before turning back to where he thought they all were.  “Guys, really.  It’ll be fine.  Don’t worry.  I’m okay, and there’s still hope.”  He limped out of the room.

Thor was stiff.  Then he turned to the others, face full of pain.  “Is he?  And is there truly?”

Bucky closed his eyes and hurried after his husband.  He couldn’t answer either question.


	12. Chapter 12

Wakanda was deep into its rainy season.  The surrounding plains and forests were dark, soaked with teeming precipitation that shimmered as Clint capably guided the Avengers quinjet through the nation’s camouflage shield.  Bucky leaned over the pilot’s chair, watching the gleaming capital city through the jet’s windshield.  He’d been here once before, and he could very distinctly remember how beautiful it was.  At the time Steve had first brought him, it’d been sunset across the African nation, and the dying daylight had set the city’s many towers and buildings majestically aglow in yellow and pearl.  Wakanda was a marvel, and everything about it was an amazing combination of sleek technology and deep, proud culturalism.  This was a place where the past and the future met before your eyes, and it happened with such grace and confidence that it almost didn’t seem real.

But it was real.  It was utterly majestic.  _The Golden City._

And if Bucky hadn’t been so nervous, maybe he could have appreciated that feeling anew.  As it was, the view of the city was very wet, dull, and gray, and his heart hadn’t slowed in its rapid pace since they’d departed New York.  He was so miserably anxious that even breathing deeply seemed impossible.  He managed a full breath, though, and glanced down to Clint, who’d volunteered to fly them here.  “Everything set?” he asked as Clint took them closer to the city among the heavy, misty clouds.

Of course it would be, but Clint humored him.  “Yep.  We’ll be landing in a few.  You probably oughtta buckle up.  Might get bumpy with the rain when we descend between the buildings.”

Bucky nodded and left the archer to the controls.  He headed to the back of the jet, where Sam and Natasha were flanking Steve on the bench.  Steve was very nervous, too.  Bucky could tell, even if he was quiet and seemingly calm.  He was fidgeting again, this time with the hem of his polo shirt and the folds of denim from his jeans on his bad leg.  He was alternating that with turning his wedding ring around his finger over and over again.  Seeing him do that now made Bucky’s heart hurt.  “Ready?” he asked the others.

Sam nodded, securing his belt before leaning over to do Steve’s.  “I can do it,” Steve said, batting his hands away and checking his own belt with probing fingers.  Sam turned to Bucky, frowning at the slightly sharp edge to Steve’s voice, and Bucky shook his head.

Unfortunately, Steve’s stubborn streak and need for independence only continued.  The second the quinjet set down on the Citadel’s landing pad, he fought against the idea of using the wheelchair.  “Steve, come on,” Natasha said, crouching in front of him as Sam pushed the chair closer.  “It’s pouring out there.  Just let us get you where you need to go.”

“Why?” Steve said.  “I can walk just fine.”

Natasha shook her head.  “That’s not point,” she replied, a bit exasperated.  “We know you can.  This isn’t about proving anything.”

Steve undid his lap belt and made to stand.  He was pretty steady now, all things considered, as he reached for where he knew his crutches were.  “I can manage it.”  He became breathless as he rushed to get his crutches under his arms before anyone could stop him and limping to the back of the jet.  There he stopped.  For all his bravado since breakfast that morning, he knew he was in trouble.  He couldn’t see the ramp, couldn’t feel it with the crutches enough to judge the angle of the decline or know his way, so he was stuck.

Bucky simply didn’t have the patience for this, not after the misery of the night before and the tension that morning at breakfast.  He took the wheelchair from Sam and pushed it to Steve.  “Sit,” he ordered, trying to stay calm and collected for Steve’s sake.  Steve was trembling on the crutches.  The rain outside the lowered ramp was so loud, a roar of water on cement, but it didn’t mask the sound of Steve’s ragged wheezing.  Bucky put a firm hand on his shoulder.  “Sit.  Come on.”

Steve turned to him and glared.  “I can do this, Buck.”

“No, you can’t.  Not right now.”  Bucky wasn’t mean about that.  It was simply a statement of fact.  “So come on.  Ass in chair.”

Stubbornly Steve refused a second more.  All his anger and frustration from how the team had treated him that morning was obviously contributing to his defiance now.  Still, logic won out, and he conceded defeat, sighing and letting Bucky guide him into the wheelchair.  Sam was there to take the crutches, and Natasha had a couple umbrellas.  Clint was coming from the cockpit, and he took one from her, opened it, and held it over the chair.  “We’re all set.  Let’s go.”

The Dora Milaje were waiting for them in front of their king’s palace.  As always, they were uniformed, imposing, and steadfast with their golden spears pointed skyward.  The women were uncaring of the deluge pounding them, and they were as stoic, powerful, and beautiful as ever in spite of it.  They were an intimidating lot; Bucky knew they took their duty to protect the royal family of Wakanda very seriously.  They’d die before they allowed a threat into the Citadel.

When they saw Captain America in the wheelchair, pushed by his husband and flanked by his friends, all huddled under a few umbrellas to protect themselves from the punishing weather…  Okoye, the general of the Dora Milaje, approached first, and her often tense expression softened just a bit.  “Captain Rogers,” she greeted evenly.  “Come with me.”

Behind her, the lines of Dora Milaje parted with a synchronized clanking of spears to the ground.  They stood there and waited, watching carefully, as the Avengers wheeled their broken captain into the Citadel.  Okoye directed them inside, and T’Challa, Shuri, the Queen Mother, Ramonda, were waiting right at the door.

From the first moment Bucky had met T’Challa, he’d known the other was among the calmest, wisest, and most powerful men he’d ever met.  Wakanda’s young king was truly an amazing ally.  If it hadn’t been for his willingness to forgive Bucky’s crimes and his generosity, and if it hadn’t been for his influential voice aiding in Bucky’s defense before the US Congress and the world, things would not have gone so well for him.  He knew that was all due to Steve’s friendship with T’Challa and T’Challa’s own good heart.

Right now, T’Challa looked upset.  He knew, of course, what had befallen Steve.  Still, since no information had been made public about Steve’s condition, there’d been no way for T’Challa to truly _know_ what it looked like.  Clearly it was taking him aback.  He donned a smile all the same, even though Steve couldn’t see it, as Okoye led them closer.  “Captain,” he greeted.  Bucky stopped the wheelchair in front of the king.  Steve sensed where he was, but instead of just looking up, he pushed himself up once the chair was steady.  He offered his hand too far to the right, and a brief look of alarm crossed T’Challa’s features.  He went with it, though, saying nothing and taking Steve’s hand right away.  “I’m pleased to see you.”  He winced when he realized what he’d said.

Steve was either too nervous and excited to notice or he didn’t care.  “Thank you for letting us come here,” he said.  “I know it’s not easy.”  Though Wakanda had become significantly more open about its resources since T’Challa had become king, many were still hesitant and wary.  Few foreigners were allowed into the Citadel.  Traditions born from hundreds of years of isolation were difficult to break.

“You are most welcome, Captain,” the Queen Mother said.  Her regal, beautiful face was full of sadness.  “We will do what we can to help you.”

“I really appreciate that, ma’am,” Steve said, giving her a small bow of deference.

“Shuri has everything ready, yes?” T’Challa declared, glancing at his younger sister.          

Shuri gave a little smile.  Bucky liked her a lot.  He always felt nervous around T’Challa; the man felt to be light years above him in just about every way.  Shuri, on the other hand, was more approachable.  She was sweet, sassy, a little quirky and eccentric, and so unbelievably smart but not at all arrogant about it.  Tony and even Bruce never shied away from talking up their scientific exploits (and one-upping each other, which was always good-natured but just a tad conceited).  The little time Bucky had spent with Shuri had shown her to be more confident in a way because she didn’t feel the need to brag.  Her work spoke for itself.

Hopefully she’d be able to help now.  “Yes,” she replied.  “We can begin whenever you want.”

T’Challa turned to Bucky.  “Would you prefer to rest first?”

“No,” Steve said quickly.  “No, I’d rather we get started.  If that’s okay.”

T’Challa waited for Bucky’s approval, which was all kinds of wrong.  Bucky nodded, and the king returned the gesture, face full of understanding.  Nothing was worse than waiting, particularly regarding something so serious.  He grasped Steve’s arm affectionately.  “Of course.  Right this way.”

Bucky put his hand to Steve’s shoulder to guide him back down into the chair.  Steve sat far more obediently this time.  Sam dropped his hand to Steve’s other shoulder in a brotherly pat, and after T’Challa bid farewell to his mother, their group began to walk through the palace.  The place was as incredible as Bucky recalled, still so modern with the finest technological amenities yet huge, airy, and filled with décor that spoke of Wakanda’s rich history and traditions.  Bucky allowed himself a moment to glance around and take it in.  Behind them, he noticed Sam, Clint, and Natasha doing the same (though Natasha less conspicuously).  They’d never been here before.

“I must apologize,” T’Challa said from the side of Steve’s wheelchair.  “I should have come when Stark informed me of how serious your injuries were.  Or in the weeks since then, for that matter.”

“It’s alright,” Steve said.

“No,” T’Challa declared, shaking his head and squinting with emotion as he led them to a series of elevators.  “I owe you deeply for your help with finding my father’s murderer.”

“You’re a king,” Sam said.  “You don’t have to drop everything and come running.”

T’Challa was not appeased by the excuse.  “The council needed help in dealing with a tangled mess of diplomatic issues with some of our neighboring countries.  The negotiations took far longer than they should have, and I thought about your situation constantly.”

“Truly he did,” Shuri added teasingly.  “He was always in contact with me, asking if I had new information, calling every morning, afternoon, and night.”  T’Challa gave his sister a bit of an embarrassed glare, and she answered with a cheeky grin that lightened the mood.  “What, brother?  Am I not to tell our friends the depths of your devotion to them?”

Steve did manage a small smile at that.  “At any rate,” T’Challa continued as they made their way deeper into the Citadel, “I should have resolved the situation faster.  My father was a far better diplomat than I am, sadly, and it took too much time to convince these other rulers than I honor my word.”  As they entered a huge, glass elevator to take them downward, Bucky couldn’t fathom anyone not believing in T’Challa’s promises.  It seemed to be inconceivable.  “And then once things were settled, the threat to you was long resolved, but I knew of the troubles Stark and Banner were encountering.  You weren’t well enough to travel, and, well…  What is it they say?  I thought my presence would amount to too many cooks being in the kitchen.”

“It’s alright,” Steve said again.  He looked disoriented and a little fearful.  “All that matters is whatever you can do now.”

T’Challa glanced at Natasha and Sam before settling his worried gaze on Bucky.  “Of course,” he said.

The rest of the trip to Shuri’s laboratory was spent in tense silence.  It seemed to Bucky that a whole conversation was taking place, though, through the looks the team and T’Challa were sharing amongst each other.  The volume of the unspoken concern was overwhelming.  Steve had no concept so much worry and grief was being shared about him (or if he did, he was doing a damn good job of acting like he didn’t).  In any case, Bucky was glad for Steve’s stoicism as he pushed the chair off the lift and to their destination.

As nice and advanced as the hospital in the complex was, the medical areas and research labs in Wakanda were downright amazing.  Everything was gleaming, panels of silver, white, and gold set into rock and glass.  Holographic images were everywhere, displaying information in a language Bucky couldn’t read.  It was familiar, though.  This he remembered well from his own time here, the way everything had felt so new and different yet welcoming.  At the time it had been such a stark contrast to the dark, awful hell of HYDRA’s labs.  He’d known so many after seventy years spent as the Winter Soldier that this place, with its bright feel and clean air and gentle souls working inside it, had seemed like heaven.  When he’d been here for the surgery to attach his new arm, he’d been excited and nervous and anxious, but he hadn’t been afraid.

He was terrified now as Shuri directed the wheelchair be brought to a table in the center of one of the more spacious labs.  “Can I examine you, Captain?” she asked as her assistants came over.  “I have been following the progress of your friends back in New York, but I would prefer to make my own assessments.”

Steve smiled tensely.  God, he was terrified, too.  “Please,” he said in offering.  He stood once the wheelchair was locked in place.  Sam immediately took his arm to steady him.  “Where do you want me?”

Shuri took a look at Steve’s slightly damp clothes.  He was shivering against Sam, trying to stay rigid so that it wouldn’t show.  Sam frowned, and Shuri’s warm eyes filled with understanding.  “Let’s get you changed first,” she said.  “We’ll go from there.”

A few minutes later, Steve was dressed in clean, white hospital pajamas.  Natasha and Clint were making small talk with him, trying to keep the mood light and distracted, while Shuri and her team readied her equipment.  Someone had brought refreshments to a waiting area just outside the lab, and Bucky stood there with Sam, sipping a warm, sweet drink that tasted new and unusual but pleasant.  Even still, it was hard to focus on that or on anything else.  The waiting area had a massive window that showed the lab, and Bucky could tell that Steve wanted him there, just as he had during Cho’s procedure weeks ago.  It was the brave front again, only Steve didn’t have the emotional fortitude right now to make it at all convincing.  Frankly, Bucky ached to go back in, but T’Challa had said he wanted to speak with him.  He was attending to some other matter and would be back shortly.

“I hate this.”  Sam’s grumble was unnaturally loud.  Bucky tore his gaze from Steve to look at him.  Sam seemed brittle and bent and so very tired.  He felt Bucky’s eyes on him even though he was staring at the lab, and that made him bend more.  “Jesus.  The mission last night was bad enough.  Now this.  Just fuck.  When I said I couldn’t take much more…”

Bucky sighed.  “I know.”

Sam looked down.  All the fiery anger that had driven him for days, _weeks_ , was simply gone, leaving behind someone who’d been burned.  “God, Bucky.  I just…  I’m so tired.  I’m so goddamn tired.  And I keep thinking about…  I see Steve falling in my mind every time I close my eyes.  What Vision said last night…  Maybe it’s true, but I can’t believe it.  I go over everything again and again in my head.  How did this happen?  How the hell did we _let_ this happen?”

There was no answer.  There never would be.  Bucky looked down at his mug, feeling overly exposed and vulnerable.  He set it to the coffee table in the little seating area and returned to standing at the window.  “You should go back in,” he said after a beat.  “I think Steve would feel better with one of us in there.”

Sam frowned.  “You sure?”

“Yeah.”  Sam was quick to set down his drink and head back into the lab.  Sure enough, as soon as Sam was back by the exam bed, Steve calmed a bit.  He took Sam’s hand (it was remarkable how adept Steve was becoming at identifying people by touch) and actually smiled.  Bucky watched in silence, relaxing with a few long breaths.  _It’ll be okay._   He told himself that.  _This could work out.  It’s going to be okay.  Everything’s okay._

_I’ll be okay, Buck._

“How is your new arm?”

Bucky turned to see T’Challa at the door.  He was smiling, though it seemed strained, and though the question was rooted in genuine interest, it was also an attempt at small talk.  Bucky managed a little smile of his own.  He lifted his left arm, the black and gold vibranium plating catching in the room’s light.  “It’s great.  Thank you again.”

T’Challa nodded.  The king’s eyes were sharp but full of sorrow as he slowly made his way into the waiting area.  Carefully he came to stand at Bucky’s side, not in a manner that said he was at all afraid of him but that he was cautious all the same.  Bucky wasn’t insulted.  It was only natural, considering who he’d been and how precarious his own recovery had been at times.

Then T’Challa asked what he truly wanted to ask.  “How is he doing?”

Bucky softly sighed, wondering if he should lie or at least soften the blow of the truth.  He couldn’t manage it.  “Not well.  He’s trying hard not to show it, but he’s scared out of his head.”  He swallowed down a lump in his throat.  “We both are.”

T’Challa nodded sadly.  He clasped his hands behind his back.  “I can appreciate that,” he said.  They both watched the team for a moment, Sam giving Steve’s hair (finally long enough again to cover the scars on his scalp) a brotherly, teasing rub, and Clint saying something that made Sam laugh, and Natasha blinking and blinking like she was yet again trying to withhold tears.  “When I saw the footage of the battle and saw him fall…”  Bucky braced himself for some sort of accusation.  It didn’t come.  “There are many times where I wish the world was a better place.  For centuries, as you know, our borders were closed and we lived in secrecy.  It was the goal of my father and all my forefathers to protect Wakanda at all costs.  I knew when my father was murdered that that mindset could not persist.  He had begun to open the door, barely more than a crack, but enough for the violence to find its way to us.  I almost lost my resolve then and there to continue to join life beyond our borders.”

T’Challa’s voice shook, and he stopped.  A long breath left him.  He looked down, shifting his arms in front of him.  “But when he fell…  I knew I hadn’t done enough.  The Avengers faced a threat like that alone.  _Another_ threat like that.  Another attack and invasion that could have ended our world.  How many could they fight before someone died?  Before someone faced a fate like this?  How is there no blood on my hands?”  His fingers clenched into fists.  “The Black Panther is meant to protect Wakanda.  But if I had helped protect the world, perhaps Captain America would not have fallen from that building.  One more fighter, one more warrior, a thousand more from our tribes, the technology we have…”  He shook his head.  “He should not have been a sacrifice to protect that.”

Bucky wanted to tell T’Challa that that was ridiculous.  He hadn’t been there, nor had he had any cause to be, so Steve’s injuries were as far from his fault as possible.  He couldn’t get the words out though, and he doubted they would do any good.  Guilt wasn’t logical.  Neither was grief.  There was more than enough of both to go around, it seemed, even here.

T’Challa eventually looked away from the lab and turned to Bucky instead.  “That is why I wanted to speak with you.  I assume you will take Captain Rogers’ place.”

That made Bucky’s stomach drop.  Shock left him cold, and he regarded the other man with wide eyes.  Paranoia licked at him.  It seemed impossible that Fury could have spoken with T’Challa of all people (or that T’Challa would do his bidding), but…  T’Challa winced.  “I apologize if I overstepped my bounds.  I thought…  Well, the Black Panther is handed down from family to family.  You are his family.”

It took Bucky a moment to speak.  “We haven’t…  There hasn’t been a decision yet.”

“If Captain America…  If no one takes up the shield, will Stark lead?”

“I – I don’t know.”

T’Challa didn’t seem to know what to say to that.  Obviously he hadn’t anticipated that Bucky wouldn’t be assuming Steve’s role.  “Well, I will still tell you what I wish to say, and you can tell who you must.  I wanted to pledge my aid should the need arise again.  I feel as though the Avengers can use all the help they can get, and I can no longer sit by idly when danger comes to our world.  Should you need me, I will fight at your side.”

Bucky stared at him for a moment, rattled and cold.  “Thank you,” he finally managed.

They fell into an awkward silence.  Inside the lab, Shuri had Steve lying flat now.  She guided him with a hand on his shoulder, and she was tapping at a few holographic controls above his bed.  Her _kimoyo_ beads were alight, though Bucky couldn’t quite see what they were showing her.  Sam, Clint, and Natasha had stepped back, and they were silently watching as she began her work.  “Maybe it won’t matter.”  He hadn’t decided to say that.  As he watched the soft blue light of Shuri’s scanners wash over his husband’s damaged body, it simply came, teeming with a sudden touch of hope and excitement.  “All this… _guilt_ we’re all feeling.  Maybe this will work.  She’ll help him, and you can tell Steve the things you want to say, because he’ll be fine, and everything will go back to normal.”

Even after hope betraying them so many times before, saying these things felt so good.  The words _sounded_ good when they came out.  But in the silence that followed, they immediately didn’t seem so strong, so real, and T’Challa didn’t support them.  “I can’t blame you for holding onto hope.  I know I would do the same.  But when I spoke to Shuri before you came…”  His hesitant eyes, so deep with grief and sympathy, flicked to Bucky.  “There are things we can do for him to help him, and we will, should he choose it.  We will do whatever we can.”  He sighed, struggling.  “But I fear we cannot tell him what he wishes to hear.”

And, sure enough, they couldn’t.  Shuri’s assessments went on for hours.  Her team took blood, ran all sorts of different scans, examined Steve’s weak leg and hindered lung and, of course, the head injury.  They checked and checked and rechecked again.  They didn’t explain anything while they worked, and that only added to the mounting sense of imminent failure.  Therefore, by the time Shuri was actually ready to render her prognosis, Bucky was prepared for the worst.

The worst was what she delivered.  “I’m very sorry, Captain, but there is nothing I can do to fix the serum.”

Steve was still dressed in the white pajamas.  He was sitting on the latest examination table, hands curled around the lip of the table on either side of his thighs, bare feet dangling.  Bucky watched him carefully as he took in the news.  The muscles of his biceps tensed, and his fingers digging into the leather.  Before all this, Bucky would have worried about the surface ripping.  It would have ripped.  Now Steve’s knuckles blanched white, and he minutely shook, but nothing broke.  Not even him.

“Nothing?” Sam murmured, face taut with pain.

Shuri’s eyes were full of regret as she explained.  “With Doctor Banner’s information, I’ve been able to isolate many of genes involved with serum production in your DNA.  Unfortunately, the radiation to which you were exposed has damaged most of them, some almost beyond a recognizable state.”

“But we possess technology to alter DNA sequences,” T’Challa said.  “Do we not?”

“We do.”  Shuri shook her head.  “But there is too much destruction.  There are literally thousands of unique DNA sequences involved, and I have no blueprint to rebuild them.  Even if I could begin to untangle the mess that radiation left, I wouldn’t know what to change it to.  The only working copy of the correct genetic signatures caused by Erskine’s original serum was your DNA, Captain.  That copy is no longer available.  There are no other samples.  No attempt to recreate the serum has been successful.  None of Erskine’s work was preserved.  There is no substitute.”  She paused, clearly bothered by her inability to help.  “I wish I could say more, but I cannot.  The serum’s genes are simply too damaged for me to repair.”

Steve hadn’t been looking at her directly this entire time, but now his eyes glazed completely.  His shoulders sagged, and his breath came in a noticeable wheeze.  Everyone was staring at him, and Bucky knew he was sensing that.  A tiny shudder worked over him.  Shuri looked devastated, and idly Bucky thought this wasn’t fair to her, either.  _Everything,_ all their remaining hopes, had been riding on this, and she’d become the bearer of bad news.  The one to shatter the faith to which they’d all clung from the beginning: that somehow, in some way, if all else failed, the wonders of Wakanda would save them.

They couldn’t.  Steve dropped his head more, perhaps trying to hide how much he was hurting.  It wasn’t very successful.  “I am so sorry,” Shuri said again.  “I had hoped that when you came here, I would see something more than what I had in Doctor Banner’s information.  I didn’t.”

Natasha shook her head.  She seemed too stricken to think.  “So there’s no chance…”

Shuri turned to her.  “I wish I could say there was.”

“Would someone else…”  T’Challa turned sharp eyes at Clint, and the archer flushed.  “Sorry.”

T’Challa sighed, like he’d realized his reaction wasn’t appropriate and instead driven by pain.  “If Shuri says there’s no way to do it, then there’s no way.”

“It’s not because my opinions are better,” Shuri said, giving her brother a bit of a harsh look all her own.  “It’s sadly just the truth.  We have the technology to perform the level of precision DNA manipulation required.  Other places in the world may as well, and you can look at them as options.  But I can’t see how they can get past the fundamental issue that’s stopping us.  Without Captain Rogers’ _original_ DNA to model repairs–”

“There’s nothing on the super soldier serum?” Sam asked.  “We never found anything?”

“No.  There was no preservation of the original blood samples from Project: Delilah,” Natasha sadly declared from the other side of exam bed.  “There’s nothing left of Steve’s DNA before he got hit.”

“And SHIELD never took more,” T’Challa said.  It was obvious from his clipped tone what he thought of SHIELD and its handling of things.

Clint answered.  “What they had they stole,” he said.  Bucky turned to his husband; he wasn’t sure if anyone had ever told Steve how this bioagent had come into existence, that Steve’s privacy had been violated without his knowing.  Steve was still looking down.  Clint was watching Natasha, but she, too, was looking down like she was too ashamed to be seen at the moment.  “Bruce told me this was a problem weeks ago, and Nat and I have been looking into it.  Fury never wanted other samples kept.  He claimed it was too much of a risk if it fell into the wrong hands.  And it was fine, because Cap didn’t need medical too often.  He healed fast so–”  He cut himself off.  “We checked into every doctor and nurse that ever treated Steve between when he woke up from the ice and now.  Like Nat said, there’s nothing.”

Bruce had told Bucky all that, too, days and days ago, that Erskine’s original serum was gone for good.  Bucky had worried about it at the time, but it had been this little thing creeping about the back of his mind, minor compared to the million other, bigger troubles.

Now it had apparently come full circle and come with a vengeance. 

Shuri sighed.  “Without knowing what the genes _should_ look like, it would essentially come down to redesigning the original super soldier serum.”  _Which isn’t possible._   She didn’t have to say that for them all to know it.  “It can be pursued, but I’m not sure it’s an attainable goal.  It certainly isn’t a barrier we can simply overcome right now.”  She looked at Steve again and found the courage to touch his shoulder.  “I am truly, deeply sorry.”

Steve was a statue.  For a moment, Bucky thought _this_ was it.  It had to be.  This was the moment where he would _finally_ break, where he’d let all that pain and sorrow out at long last.  Fuck, he deserved to.  This was…  _It’s the end._   There was nowhere to go from here.  Shuri and Wakandan medicine had been their last and best hope.  If there was ever a time to shatter and at long last let the truth sink into him, it was now.

But _even still_ Steve didn’t.  He reached up a trembling hand and took Shuri’s.  “It’s okay,” he said in a small voice that was trying to be strong.  “It isn’t your fault.”

Sam showed the anguish Steve was trying so ardently to hide.  His fiery anger was back just like that.  It was all over his face, though he, too, was fighting to stay composed, fighting and failing.  “So that’s it then.  There’s nothing you can do for him.”

Shuri recovered herself and turned back to their group.  “On the contrary, there are numerous things that can be done.  I am investigating methods to restore some measure of visual acuity.  There are multiple options to improve nerve innervation and control in your damaged leg.  We have employed such techniques for multiple years here in Wakanda with vibranium splints and prosthetics.  It would not be unlike the system I used to enhance the functionality of Sergeant Barnes’ arm.”  Bucky found himself clenching his metal fingers again.  He forced himself to relax.  “There are many options to explore to improve your quality of life.”

Steve drew another wheezing breath.  He finally looked up a bit as Shuri came to stand in front of him.  She took his other hand and held them both in her own.  “Still, I must say something to you now.  Doctor Banner expressed to me concern that the damage done to the serum is still a threat.  SHIELD’s Project: Delilah is a stop-gap measure, as he put it.  It’s not a permanent solution to the problem, and I agree.  The bond the suppressing agent has on the serum’s production, the _way_ it’s neutralizing the threat still in your cells, is not strong and steady enough for me to believe you’re entirely safe.”

Steve squinted in confusion.  “What?”

“This is an unimaginable situation, and there are a great many unknowns at play, but I am not convinced with certainty that the corrupted serum will stay suppressed.  Already once SHIELD’s neutralizing agent began to fail, yes?”  Shuri looked right to Bucky for confirmation, and, cold and afraid, Bucky nodded.  “With the exposure to other radiation.  There could be other factors that could also lessen its efficacy or disturb the bond the agent has on the cellular receptors that control serum production, factors we can’t predict or control.  Time alone may be a factor should the bioagent degrade.”  She frowned.  “For want of a better phrase, you slapped a band-aid on a hemorrhaging wound and by some miracle it’s holding back the blood.  But it’s just a band-aid, and not one we understand well either.”

Bucky began to feel sick again.  He knew where this was going.  Like that awful conversation with Fury days ago, _he knew_ in his blood and bones.  Still, he asked, because he couldn’t believe it.  “What are you suggesting?”

Shuri’s bright eyes glanced to him before returning to Steve.  “I think it would be in your best interest to allow me to excise the mutated DNA.  That is the safest and most permanent treatment.”

 _Excise the mutated DNA._   In the silence that followed, Bucky’s thoughts stumbled over that.  His eyes drifted over the group, registered the horror on the others’ faces.  On Natasha’s face and Clint’s face.  On Sam’s.  “You mean remove the serum entirely,” Sam murmured.

“Yes,” she replied.  “I have the technology to degrade the damaged DNA sequences and restore the nucleotide chain around them.  I’m confident I can accurately identify the genes that control the serum production in your body and destroy them entirely.  The procedure may take a few days, and there may be some delays or discomforts as your body adjusts, but you would be safe.”

“But the serum would be gone,” Clint said, voice tighter with understanding and panic.  “It’d be gone for good.”

She nodded.  “Yes.”

“That’s shutting the door on ever trying anything else to fix it!”  Sam dropped his hands to his hips, biting his lower lip a second while he wrestled with his emotions.  “You’d give up on Steve ever getting his life back.”

“The life he had,” Shuri argued.  “Not the life he could _still_ have.”  She turned to her brother as if anticipating the fight coming and seeking his support.  “This is the only way to ensure the poison inside Captain Rogers’ cells is eradicated.  We can leave it, sure, but there would always be a threat.  Considering the myriad sources of radiation in the world, everything from the sun to electronics to medical technologies, it would be a constant issue.”

“You don’t know that, though,” Natasha said softly.  “You don’t know the extent.  You don’t know how serious it could be.”

After a pause and a little sigh, Shuri conceded.  “I do not, not with certainty.  What I do know with certainty, though, is the chance of something potentially harmful happening with the mutated serum still in his body is astronomically higher than without it, _and_ I feel very strongly that the odds of fixing the serum are infinitesimal.  Scientifically, medically, and logically, there should be no question.  It is no different than amputating a dying limb to prevent further infection or removing a tumor to stop the spread of more cancer.”  Bucky flinched.  Christ, that sounded harsh.  Shuri seemed to realize that, and she softened her voice as she addressed Steve anew.  “Captain, that was blunt, but I am saying what I am because I believe it’s true.  The super soldier serum as it was, as it was _meant_ to be, is gone.  We can never get it back.  What’s left is contaminated and corrupted.  It’s dangerous, and there is no reason to keep it inside you.”

Silence.  No one spoke, and everyone was staring at Steve again.  Steve was still, hardly blinking, and barely breathing at all.  The quiet was suffocating.  Torturous.  Then Steve sighed a shivery breath.  “Do I need to decide now?”

Shuri shook her head.  “No!  No, of course not.  I’m prepared to do it at any time.  It does not need to be now.  It doesn’t even need to be this trip.”

“No, my friend, you are certainly welcome to go home and come back,” T’Challa added.  “We completely understand.”

“I’m willing to do whatever you wish,” Shuri added.  It was almost as if she’d seen her concerns had hit home and she was satisfied enough to let the urgency go.  “Take your time.  If you decide to go through with it, like I said, it would likely involve a few days of treatment.  I would likely also request that Doctor Banner be present; he’s very familiar with the serum’s genetic code.  So, certainly, consider it, and if you want to do it, we can discuss more of the details then.  What do you think?”

_Shutting down the serum for good.  Removing it._

_Destroying any chance of ever going back._            

All the sudden Steve was sliding off the examination bed.  His bare feet hit the floor softly, and he nearly buckled.  He didn’t, stabilizing himself before anyone could touch him.  “I think I’d like to go rest, if that’s okay.”

Shuri seemed shocked by that for a moment.  Then she snapped into motion.  “Of course!  Yes, we can get you dressed and out of here.  Spending hours as my test subject isn’t my brother’s favorite pastime either.  Shall I show them some of our greatest hits?” she asked teasingly, trying to be light and cheery and desperately seeking T’Challa’s help.

T’Challa came over to guide Steve to the wheelchair.  “No, Shuri.  As much fun as that sounds, we have a meal planned for this evening.  It’s not often we entertain outsiders, so the Queen insisted.”

Steve didn’t answer, so Sam, Natasha, and Clint swooped in and did on his behalf to be polite.  Bucky watched the group of them, the chatter coming hard and fast to cover up the bleeding wound this entire experience had left on them all.  He went over to Steve while they discussed the dinner and what was to be served and the rainy weather and anything and _everything_ to make small talk.  Then he knelt in front of Steve and cupped his face as he had so many times before.

Steve’s trembling smile was devastating.  “I’m okay, Buck,” he promised, even as a tear or two escaped no matter how hard he held it all back.  Bucky wiped them away with his thumb before Steve took his hand from his cheek.  “I’m okay.”

As they walked from the lab, Bucky pushing the wheelchair and hating himself for ever coming here, he bitterly wondered how it could still feel so fresh and awful to see the man he loved have his faith shattered and his heart broken.  Another hope dashed and destroyed.  Another chance that turned out to be nothing but pain and disappointment.  At least this seemed like it could be the last one. 

_The end of the line._


	13. Chapter 13

Outside, the rain poured and poured.

Inside, Steve was sitting in his wheelchair in front of the window.  He’d been there for a while now.  It was hours after dinner, a dinner that had been fraught with grief.  Bucky hadn’t had much of an occasion the last time he’d been in the Citadel to appreciate the wonders of Wakandan cuisine.  Were he in a better mindset, he might have now.  He might have really thought it amazing to have come from the Depression, from boiling food and his mother and Steve’s mother doing the best they could with what they’d had, to a king’s table in the richest nation in the world with foods he’d never even fathomed existing being put in front of him.  He might have enjoyed it.

But he honestly couldn’t remember how a single thing had tasted.

The whole dinner had been like that.  Food that once again had no meaning.  A blur of futile conversation.  Uneasy smiles and empty eyes.  Everyone had been so distracted that no attempt to carry the group through the meal with talk and camaraderie worked, and everyone had retired with heavy hearts and burdened minds.  Bucky had gotten Steve back to their suite.  He had never once tried to use the crutches or even argue that he should, instead staying quiet and sedate in the wheelchair.  That should have been more troubling, but Bucky himself was too tired and beaten down to comment or even make much notice.  Steve hadn’t spoken with him, either.  They’d been that way, distant and detached from each other, all through Steve’s shower, through getting Steve ready for bed, through everything.

To this moment now, where Steve was sitting at the window and watching the rain.  It was surprisingly early; the sun was still up, not that it was easy to see that with the thick, dark clouds so low over the jungle.  T’Challa had given them a suite not unlike the one they’d had the last time they’d come: spacious, elegant, with every possible comfort and amenity and a view that was utterly breathtaking over the Golden City and the lands beyond.  The windows were so huge and clear it was almost dizzying, like Bucky could walk right off the edge of the room and touch the clouds.  He remembered thinking that last time, how unreal and bright and ethereal things were here.  He remembered how happy they’d been, how relieved, with Bucky’s old damaged arm gone and the new one sure and strong, with the last hold of HYDRA literally and symbolically removed from them.

Right now, there was nothing but sadness and disappointment, and everything seemed so dark, wet, and bleak.

Bucky softly walked to where Steve was beside the window.  He had his fingers pressed to the glass.  That seemed strange.  He was leaning so close, staying very still, and touching the glass just so.  “Steve?”  He didn’t answer.  Bucky watched him a moment more, so damn tired and broken inside.  “Stevie, let’s go to bed, huh?  It’s been a long, rough day.”

Still Steve didn’t respond.  It was like he hadn’t heard.  Bucky didn’t know whether to be frustrated or frightened.  He was both.  “Steve,” he called again, coming up right behind the wheelchair.  “Steve, what are you doing?”

“Seeing the rain.”

Bucky frowned.  “Steve–”

“You know what’s weird?”  Bucky helplessly shook his head, not that Steve could see him.  Steve went on anyway.  “All the memories since I fell, they’re real hazy.  Indistinct and blurry and some things aren’t there.  I just know they happened, but I can’t remember them at all.  And I know you’re thinking it’s because I almost died or because I hit my head, and I suppose that’s possible, but I don’t think it’s that.  It’s the serum.”  He gave a little laugh.  “Or the lack of serum, I guess.  My memories from before the fall are all the way they’ve been, so vivid and strong and _real_.  I could tell you how many plates you have in your arm or the exact color of Nat’s eyes or the way Tony sounds when he laughs or how bright Thor’s lightning is or the way Wanda’s paprikash tastes.  I could tell you the number of times I drew your face back in my place in DC or the kinds of weapons HYDRA used back when we fought them in Lebanon or the number of traffic lights on path I jogged every morning or the types of pens on Fury’s desk back in the Triskelion.  All of that, so much detail I felt like my brain couldn’t take it sometimes.  But everything after I went down and the world went dark…”  He shook his head and dropped his gaze from the window.  “It’s dull.  And… and _normal._ ”  That little laugh turned to a rueful grunt.  “Guess that’s a small blessing, that these memories aren’t super-powered.”

That hurt so much.  Bucky came around to the front of the wheelchair.  “Steve–”

“Feel it, Buck.”  Steve reached for him, reached for his right hand, found it and put it to the window.  It was surprising how much the rain was making the pane vibrate.  The thousands of heavy splatters and plops became the slightest rumble of sensation.  With the sound of it, even muted as it was by the Citadel, the whole thing was powerful.  “Reminds me of that time in Germany, when we got separated from the others and trapped in that bombed out village, and we were stuck there waiting for HYDRA to withdraw in that downpour.  I can…  I know what it looked like, and I can close my eyes…”  He did, pressing Bucky’s hand to the glass like he could sense the rain through Bucky’s own flesh and blood.  “The sheets of it, coming down hard and fast, shimmering like silver glass, turning everything wavy and blurry…”

Bucky’s eyes welled.  “Steve.”

“I can still see it.”  That was said so wistfully, so _wanting_.  Hauntingly so.  Steve stayed there in the moment, wavering it seemed, before he opened his eyes again.  “You’d know.  You know what it’s like.  Phantom limb pain, right?  I never really asked you about that before.”  He hadn’t, but to be fair, Bucky had never had much phantom limb pain that he could recall.  That specific breed of suffering didn’t stand out amongst everything else HYDRA had put him through in the beginning to break down his will and brainwash his mind.  And after being freed from their control, he’d never really thought about it.  Ironically, after he’d gotten the new bionic arm, he’d felt more unusual sensations, tingling and the like, as his brain adapted to the new neural inputs.  But it hadn’t been what he’d call pain.

Then again, both Steve’s and his perception of pain were probably significantly higher than the average person’s at this point.

Steve gave a shivery sigh, leaning into the window.  The rain splattered against the glass.  It seemed unending, like a constant pounding.  “I think this is the same thing.  Like your mind’s filling in the blanks.  It’s weird.  I know I’m not really seeing it, but the memory’s so sharp because the serum made it that way, and it just comes to me and it seems so real, Buck.  So real.”  His voice died to a whisper.  He dropped Bucky’s hand from the glass and slumped more.

Bucky reached over and gently pulled Steve more upright.  “Come on, doll.  Let’s get you to sleep.  You’re exhausted.”  Steve didn’t move and didn’t turn away from the rain.  “Stevie, sweetheart, c’mon.”

“I decided to do it.”

That was nothing more than a murmur.  Bucky didn’t even know what he was talking about.  “Do what?”

Finally Steve turned toward him.  His empty eyes were half-lidded and glazed, so bright but eerie and not right.  Never right now.  “I decided to have them remove the serum.”

Suddenly Bucky really did feel like he was falling, like the pane of the window was gone and he was tumbling through the clouds and mist and rain.  “What?” he said again, tone twisted this time.  “When did you…  Steve, you don’t need to make a decision now.  They said you could think about it.”

“I already told T’Challa.  Tony’s on his way with Bruce.  We’re starting first thing tomorrow morning.”

 _Tomorrow morning._   That was twelve hours away.  That was too fast!  Dizzy and reeling, Bucky knelt in front of the wheelchair.  He grabbed Steve’s hands, holding them tight.  “Listen to me.  You don’t need to do this,” he said firmly.  “You don’t.  You don’t need to rush into anything.  You don’t need to give up on ever trying to fix the serum.  There’s still time and still stuff we can try.  You’re not in danger right now, so you don’t need to–”

“I have to,” Steve answered in a soft voice.  “Don’t you see?”

Bucky shook his head, squeezing Steve’s hands until it probably hurt him.  “Don’t do this.  Please don’t.”

Steve closed his eyes again, this time seemingly even more fatigued.  “I have to.”

“No,” Bucky insisted.  It felt like everything was just collapsing.  This was worse, worse than Cho’s procedure failing and Bruce’s serum not working and Thor coming back from Asgard with nothing and Shuri telling them she couldn’t help.  It hurt.  It hurt down deep, and Bucky could barely stand it.  “This isn’t because of what I said, is it?  Back home before I went out with the team.  I – I didn’t mean it, Steve.”

“Yes, you did,” Steve calmly replied.  “You meant it.  And you were right.  You were all trying to tell me this morning and I didn’t want to hear it, but I have to listen to it now.  Clint said it.  I have to learn to live with this.”

“Ah, Christ, no…”

“Not out of anger or defeat or depression, but because it’s a part of me, right?  Like how I used to be.”

“We don’t have to give up.”

“We have to.  There’s nothing anyone can do for me now.”  Bucky squeezed his eyes shut against the burn of fresh tears.  “It’s not worth the risk to keep trying.  And it’s not worth dragging this out any longer.”

“Steve–”

“I’m blind, Buck,” Steve said.  The way he spoke, so simply and evenly and matter-of-factly…  It was crushing.  “I’m blind.  I’ve got a bad leg.  I’ve got breathing problems again.  I can’t do what I used to.  And the serum’s gone.  Nothing is going to change any of that.  I have to…  I have to accept it and move on.  We all have to.”

“No–”

“I can’t ask all of you to keep clinging to hope with me.  I can’t.”

“This isn’t about us,” Bucky argued.  “It’s about you.  It’s your life, your body.  That’s what you told me the other night.”

“I was wrong,” Steve replied.  “And that’s selfish.”

“It’s not.  God, don’t think about it that way.  I know you feel like you always gotta take a hit for people to protect them, but you’re allowed to be selfish sometimes.  You’re allowed to be selfish about this.”

Steve shook his head.  “It’s not just that.  I can’t go through it again.  I just can’t.  It hurts too much.  And as long as the serum’s in my body…  I’ll never let it go.  That tiny shred of hope will force me to keep trying and trying.  It’s too much.  Too dangerous.”  Steve exhaled slowly.  “No, this is the only way.  The best thing for everyone.  I saw that this morning, and I see it now, and I have to do this.”

Bucky had nothing to say to that.  He’d practically made the same argument back in New York, only he hadn’t realized the opportunity would actually come to force the situation to end.  He hadn’t imagined this happening, and he felt sick and awful and like a traitor.  So goddamn guilty.  It took him a moment to gather himself, to work through the pain.  Then he exhaled heavily.  “It’s only the best for everyone if it’s your decision and not anyone else’s.  This is your choice, right?  Not mine.  Not Sam’s or Nat’s or Tony’s.  _Your_ choice.”

“I know,” Steve replied.  “It is my choice.”

Bucky leaned closer, reaching up to cup Steve’s face.  “And you be sure about it.  Don’t do this for the team.  Don’t do it for me.  You know I’m okay with whatever you want.  If you want this to end now, I’ll be at your side.  If you want to keep fighting, keep trying, I’ll be at your side.  I follow you.  I’ll always follow you.”  He drew Steve’s face closer, kissing his lips softly.  “Always and forever.”

Steve gave a soft sob.  He cupped Bucky’s jaw.  “I know,” he whispered.  “And I’m sure.”

Bucky kissed him again, kissed him hard, kissed him to keep himself calm and in control.  Steve melted into his touch, leaning into him and opening his mouth to him.  As it always seemed to now, the kiss tasted like tears, but Bucky basked in it.  All the sudden, this rush of wanting, needing, came over him, like he’d been hollowed out for the last time and now _something_ had to fill it.  He wanted to touch and comfort.  He needed to be touched and comforted.  The distance that had come between them that day, these last few days, since Steve had fallen…  All of this that had turned the man he loved, the better part of _himself_ , into a stranger.  For days and days, nothing had felt right or the way it should.

He wanted to feel right again.

Steve seemed to want the same, clutching at Bucky’s hair.  “Bucky,” he whispered between kisses that were becoming more and more feverish.  “Bucky, please…”

“Steve–”

“Can we…”  Steve shivered, eyes shut, bracing his forehead to Bucky’s and panting.  “I want to feel like I used to.  Can we do that?”  His breath was a warm, wet brush of air across Bucky’s mouth.  “Can you make me feel good?”

Bucky answered by tugging Steve upward and out of the wheelchair.  Steve put a hand to the window to steady himself, his bad leg nearly folding again.  Bucky countered that by gently slinging Steve’s arm around his own shoulders and supporting him.  He wrapped his metal arm around Steve’s waist before carefully helping him limp, guiding him through their guest quarters to the bedroom.  Steve grimaced and stumbled, clearly overwhelmed and probably dizzy.  The slightest hint of his pain was too much right now, so Bucky pulled him closer and looped his arm under his knees.  He lifted Steve into his arms without the slightest hesitation and quickly walked onward.  The weight was nothing.  It never had been, even when they’d been kids giggling and gasping into the quiet of their apartment and Bucky had jokingly carried Steve to their cots.

This didn’t feel like then, though.  This wasn’t carefree or fun, not a secret love affair going on in the safety of their old, tiny bedroom.  And Steve was sick now as he had been then, but this wasn’t _normal._   In those days they’d never known anything more, never imagined anything better.  Never fathomed the pain of having something they’d wanted so badly – for Steve to be healthy – taken _away_ after experiencing it.  Bucky’s heart pounded, and tears trickled from his eyes, and he nearly staggered from how much everything hurt.

_No more pain.  Not now._

_Not ever again._

Carefully Bucky laid Steve to the bed, crawling over him with a knee between his legs.  Steve clung to him, arms around his neck and mouth searching, yearning, finding, kissing him passionately.  Moaning into Steve’s mouth, Bucky felt a warm, welcome rush of pleasure shooting through him.  It seemed like forever had passed since he’d felt that, since he’d had desire in his heart and his body.  Since he’d been _alive_ with anything other than grief and anger and hurt.  And maybe this wasn’t the best idea; Steve was still recovering, and this unexpected moment was coming after so much emotional upheaval.  Maybe they should stop.

But he didn’t want to.  He didn’t think Steve wanted to, either.  He felt himself get hard right away, his jeans becoming uncomfortably tight, and he was lightheaded with need, so he kissed back deeper, tongue pressing into Steve’s mouth.  Steve responded in kind, frantically grabbing at Bucky’s shirt.  Bucky shivered at his touch, at his _insistence_ , until he realized it wasn’t simply desperation.  Steve was scared, trembling, and fumbling at Bucky’s clothes because he didn’t know for sure where things were or how to get them off.  Because this was new and terrifying.  “Easy,” Bucky whispered into his frantically demanding lips.  “Easy, love.”

Steve gasped, flushed already, gasping like he always used to before the serum when he got excited or upset.  Bucky wasn’t sure which was which here.  He didn’t think Steve himself knew.  “Buck, please…”

“Relax,” Bucky implored.  Gently he nudged Steve down onto the huge bed.  The mattress was soft beneath them, very different from theirs at home, and it sank under Bucky’s knees as he leaned over Steve.  Steve licked lips that were already kiss-swollen, not quite able to settle down.  It took Bucky a beat to realize it was because he didn’t want to lose contact with him.  “It’s alright.”

Steve nodded.  There were tears at the corners of his eyes.  “Don’t let me go,” he begged in a whisper.

Bucky leaned down over him, rubbing his hands down Steve’s arms, trying to soothe him into releasing him.  “I won’t.  I’m right here.”  Finally succeeded in loosening Steve’s tight grip, he wove their hands together on the bed and took his mouth in a gentler kiss.  Steve eagerly welcomed his probing tongue, now letting Bucky lead, letting him taste.  When Bucky pulled away, he carefully kissed along Steve’s jaw, the scratch of stubble pleasing to sensitive lips, before reaching his ear.  “I’m not goin’ anywhere.  Not without you.”

Steve gasped, rolling his hips upward into Bucky’s body.  It wasn’t as graceful as it used to be, not with his bad leg basically useless on the bed, and there was no power behind it, no playful threat of taking control.  Bucky had him pinned, and Bucky could keep him there, and the cold recognition of that had Bucky releasing his hands and raising himself up to keep his weight off.  Right away Steve reached for him, curling fingers back into his shirt and pulling it loose from his jeans.  Bucky was fast then, leaning back and ripping the garment off.  The second Steve’s searching hands touched the warm, smooth flesh of his chest, he shuddered, and Steve groaned.  It was rough, tangled up with a sob.  Bucky stayed still a moment, worried, watching Steve below him as Steve’s fingers swept lightly and tentatively over his skin.  Doubt clouded everything for a second.  This was too hard, too upsetting, too different than before.

But this, too, was something they simply had to overcome, a change to which they needed to adjust.  And Steve was trying.  He touched Bucky like he needed to learn him again.  His hands started at his stomach, drifting over the hills and valleys of his abs, before rising.  They wandered, explored, mapped, _discovered_ anew, because this _was_ new.  Touch alone.  Feeling without seeing.  Thumbs caressed over the skin of Bucky’s pecs, tantalizing as they brushed close and then over Bucky’s nipples.  Bucky gasped at the slight caress, wanting to close his eyes from the rush of electric bliss, but he couldn’t stand to look away for even a second.  Steve’s sightless eyes were still half-lidded, and his expression told the story they couldn’t.  His lips curled into a huge, shaky smile when Bucky groaned from another, more certain sweep across the sensitive buds, and the grin lightened his entire face.  He was finding his way, remembering maybe and putting images in his mind together with sensations.  It was gorgeous to behold, the relief and reverence so powerful that Bucky could hardly stand to breathe.

When Steve’s fingers came to his throat, his jaw, Bucky leaned down to let them easily reach higher.  Steve cupped Bucky’s face like he hadn’t mere moments before, like he needed to, thumbs sliding along the lines of his jaw, tracing the cleft in his chin, the bow-shape of his lips.  Bucky opened his mouth, kissing Steve’s fingers slowly as they passed, nipping a little at his thumb before sliding his mouth down to his palm.  He suckled there before moving down a bit to mouth at Steve’s pulse point in his left wrist.  Steve’s eyes closed, and he closed his own eyes again too as Steve’s other thumb wandered up and over his brow.  Steve shifted his hips upward again.  “What do you want, sweetheart?” Bucky whispered.  He held Steve’s hand to his mouth, kissing again and again, pressing his metal fingers to Steve’s belly before slipping under his shirt and slowly sliding up Steve’s chest.  Bucky could feel his heart racing.  “How do you want me to make you feel good?”

Steve writhed.  Bucky could see it was fear again, fear and impatience and anxiety.  “Buck…”

“We don’t have to do this.  Stevie, we never have to–”

There came another raspy sob.  “I want to.  I need to.”

“Darlin’–”

“Please,” Steve moaned.  “Please.  Like we always do.  Like we always did.”

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat.  “As long as you’re sure,” he whispered, leaning down to soothe and comfort again.  He kept his touch light but confident, kept his eyes on Steve even if Steve couldn’t see him.  He had to know Steve was okay.  “As long as this is what you want.  Same as I said before.  You don’t have to do anything for me.”

Steve pulled his hand away to plant it into the mattress and push himself up.  There was a wince there, a brief one, as he got his arms around Bucky’s neck.  “I want you,” he said, his voice a husky plea in Bucky’s ear.  “I need to feel you.  Please, Buck.  Just don’t let me go.”

That dissolved the last bit of restraint.  Their mouths met in a heated kiss, one that was wet and desperate and full of uninhabited hunger.  Bucky was frantic, reaching down and pulling Steve’s shirt off, hating that for even a split second he had to move away to let the cloth pass between them.  Steve’s fingers fumbled but muscle memory prevailed, and he got Bucky’s jeans opened, button undone and zipper lowered.  It was a clumsy mess to keep kissing as Bucky shoved his jeans and boxers down his hips and thighs, awkwardly trading his weight from one leg to another to keep himself off Steve while getting them down all the way.  He reached for Steve’s pajama pants, but Steve was reaching, too, scrambling, and Bucky grabbed his hand and put it on his dick.

There was something incredibly erotic about it, guiding Steve’s hand to him.  Not that Steve couldn’t find him and not that they hadn’t done this countless times before.  Again, though, this was new.  This was Steve charting a new path, figuring out Bucky’s body again.  The second his fingers curled around Bucky’s length, hot pleasure licked up Bucky’s spine and down the nerves of his thighs and legs to make his toes tighten.  He moaned a curse, tipping his head back and lightly holding Steve’s hand to him as Steve started to stroke him.  It was too dry, a little painful as rough calluses caught on silky skin, but it felt so goddamn _good_ after so much and so long.  And it didn’t take long at all for Steve to find some of the amazing confidence he’d had before, twisting his hand the way he knew Bucky liked, squeezing, rubbing, digging just a bit into his most sensitive places just enough for Bucky to see stars.  Christ, it was amazing, and after an embarrassingly short few moments, Bucky knew he was going to come.

It was too soon and not earned.  Without even thinking, he pulled away from Steve, slipping away from his hands and right off the bed.  Steve immediately lurched, alarm and horror bright in his eyes, and Bucky rushed back before even taking a full step away.  “No, no,” Bucky gasped, taking Steve’s reaching hands into his own.  He kissed them frantically.  “No.”

“Don’t leave me,” Steve gasped.  “Buck!”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Bucky promised.  “I just gotta get – I’ll be back.  Not leavin’ the room, Steve.”

That upset Steve.  He was wheezing, leaning up more, trying to move his bad leg and get off the bed, and Bucky just made a break for it.  He stumbled across the room toward where he’d left their bags, grabbing for his duffel and talking all the while.  “I’m just gettin’ stuff, Steve.  Don’t worry.  I ain’t leavin’.  I’m right here.  Hear me?”

Steve looked panicked.  All this insecurity was pouring through cracks in the walls he’d built around it.  “Bucky, come back.  Please.”

Bucky rushed to do just that.  “I will.  I’m coming.  I’m coming!”  Unceremoniously he dumped all the contents of the bag on the floor, digging in the pile and then into the inner pouches.  Sure enough, there was a little tube of lubricant in there, left from their last trip to Europe.  Snatching his prize, he stumbled back to the bed, where Steve was shivering and looking around with wide, horrified eyes.  Bucky climbed onto the mattress, tossing the lube to the bedding before taking Steve’s face tenderly in between his hands.

Steve startled.  “Buck–”

“Shhh,” Bucky hushed, maneuvering Steve back to the pillows.  “I’m right here.”

Steve was clutching him again, fingers digging into his shoulders.  Weeks ago, that might have hurt.  Now Bucky could hardly feel it.  “Don’t leave,” Steve gasped, rigid as Bucky pulled him into his arms.  “Don’t leave me.  Don’t leave–”

“Never,” Bucky whispered.  “God, Steve, _never_.”  Again the worries came to the forefront, that Steve was too fragile right now, too vulnerable after what had happened that day, what had been happening for weeks.  That he wasn’t solid or ready, not physically or emotionally.

But those misgivings dissolved right away.  Steve didn’t let Bucky hold or comfort him, instead grabbing Bucky’s face and kissing him ravenously.  It was sloppy, wet, uncoordinated, sharp with teeth and frantic, but Bucky simply let him, let him take what he needed, let him anchor himself and be reassured.  His hand went right back to between Bucky’s legs, fumbling a bit and a little too rough before becoming gentler.  Bucky bit down a hiss and scrambled for the lube, taking Steve’s hand away to squirt some on his hand and fingers.  Steve jerked again before realizing what it was, rubbing his fingers together through the cool, slick substance before grasping Bucky’s erection again.  Bucky groaned, biting his lower lip and rolling his hips to thrust into Steve’s grip.  Steve wrapped his other arm around Bucky’s neck, panting into the side of his throat, eyes closed and going harder and faster until Bucky was quivering and struggling to hang on, struggling not to take what Steve was trying so ardently to give him.  This wasn’t about him.  Bucky leaned forward, gently taking Steve’s hand and pushing it lightly against the bed.  Lube got everywhere.  “Let me,” he whispered, pushing Steve down more until he was on his back again beneath him.  “Let me, love.”

“Bucky…” Steve groaned.

“Not without you,” Bucky said again, kissing Steve’s jaw and then down his throat.  “Never without you.”  Steve’s breath hitched, eyes glazed and hooded, as Bucky pushed his t-shirt up.  He kept a hand to Steve’s chest as he pulled it off, just to maintain that connection.  Then he went back to Steve’s neck, kissing across it, licking at his pulse point, tasting the salt of sweat and maybe tears that had come to the hollow of his throat.  He sighed at that, going slower and lower, painting Steve’s collarbones with his tongue.  Steve’s hands came to the back of his head, threading roughly through his hair once more like he was hanging on.  Bucky let him, even if he was pulling a bit.  He kissed down Steve’s chest, down his sternum, as he slid his hands lower and grasped the waistband of Steve’s pajama pants and boxers.  With a little twisting and reaching, he managed to get the rest of Steve’s clothes out of the way.

He found himself on his knees then between Steve’s legs and looking down on him.  Like this, there was no denying everything that was different.  Steve was so pale against the dark bedspread.  The lost muscle definition was plain as day, plainer even than it had been weeks ago.  So were the scars Bucky still hadn’t quite accepted.  The mess of his bad thigh, the length of it marked with lines of silvery, puckered flesh.  The ropes and patches of raised, discolored skin on his chest.  Of course Bucky had seen it many times before, from that morning in the bathroom before Doctor Cho’s failed procedure to countless moments since then, but this was more.  Different.  Intimate.  This was Steve’s body, Steve’s _new_ body, not the same as it had been before the serum and not the same as it had been with it.  This was another transformation, one that was harsher but more tangible in a way.  More real, because it wasn’t perfect.

It just was.  _What’s done is done._   And Steve, even so scarred and battered and broken, was still so beautiful.

“Bucky,” Steve whispered.  He blinked, freeing more tears, and breathed slowly.  He was shivering.  Bucky wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed as he’d stared, but it couldn’t have been more than a moment or two.  Steve had settled in that time, had sunk into the bedding, and he looked…  God, his eyes.  They were empty but bright, new but achingly familiar, haunting but so peaceful and pure.  “Bucky, please…”

Bucky leaned down and kissed him.  “Right here,” he promised again.  He’d promise it as many times as he needed to for the rest of his life.  The next kiss was deeper, not as harried and wild, more comfort than passion.  When Steve was even laxer beneath him, he went down again, sensuously mapping Steve’s skin with his lips and tongue.  He was careful, worshipful, more tender than he ever had been because Steve needed to know what he still was.  How he still looked.  What he still _meant._

_Everything._

Bucky took his time, drifting and wandering, before sealing his mouth around one of Steve’s nipples.  He kept the pressure light, unsure as he once was when they’d been kids of how easily it could hurt.  Steve gasped, squirming a bit and tangling his fingers in Bucky’s hair.  Bucky glanced up and saw his husband’s face was tense, worried, and he wanted that anguish gone forever.  He massaged his other pec, rubbed the nipple there, too, and suckled softly, did everything he could to replace Steve’s pain with pleasure.  He kissed his way wetly down Steve’s chest more and to his stomach, finding every single one of those scars and adoringly caressing them with his fingers and lips.  Steve’s breath hitched, and Bucky hushed him again before going back to his reverence, before drifting down lower to Steve’s damaged leg, before kissing there, too, and marking each scar and groove in the skin with love.

“Bucky,” Steve whimpered, maybe uncomfortable as Bucky kissed up his inner thigh.  “Buck.”

“I know, doll.”  Bucky stopped beside Steve’s erection.  It had wilted during the moments before, but now Steve was hard again, hard and flushed red and ready.  Bucky ran his tongue along the crease of Steve’s thigh before carefully touching him.  Steve jolted like a skittish race horse.  “Shhh.  Baby, you still sure?”

“Please, Buck,” Steve said, panting and staring emptily upward as he fisted the sheets.  _“Please.”_

Bucky didn’t hesitate another second.  Quickly he found the little tube of lube as he kissed his way up Steve’s length, suckling and teasing.  Then he grasped Steve’s hips and tugged him closer and lifted him a little higher.  Steve grimaced and groaned, more in pain and discomfort than anything else.  Bucky grabbed one of the pillows and used that help prop him and his injured leg especially, hopefully taking pressure from the damaged bones and sore muscles.  “Okay?” he asked, gently rubbing Steve’s weak thigh and knee.

Steve nodded.  “Don’t stop.  Please.”

Bucky shook his head.  “Never,” he swore again, and he carefully spread Steve’s legs wider around him.  Slicking his right hand with the lube, he bent back down to kiss and suck at Steve’s erection again, not letting the pain replace desire.  Satisfaction shot through him and went straight to his own dick at seeing Steve’s eyes flutter shut again and his back arch a bit off the pillows.  Grinning in relief, Bucky went at it more enthusiastically, teasing and tantalizing and stoking Steve’s desires to a fever pitch.  While he did, he slowly massaged around Steve’s entrance, taking time to be gentle and giving Steve sufficient opportunity to back out.  They hadn’t been this cautious and hesitant with one another in forever, but causing Steve even the slightest discomfort was unacceptable.

Thus he waited, took it all very slow, pausing at every juncture for Steve’s breathing to even out while providing a gentle stream of distracting pleasure.  He used too much lube to ease the way, making sure to give Steve all the time in the world to adjust and protest if he wanted as first one and then two fingers were eased inside him.  Steve was tense, tight, but Bucky wasn’t dissuaded, stretching him patiently, opening him with kisses to his thighs and belly, slick hands stroking inside and out.  Once he touched that spot inside, Steve was desperate, eyes squeezed shut now, writhing and whimpering and reaching for him.

With a lasting, wet kiss to his weeping manhood that had Steve nearly thrusting into his mouth, Bucky pulled his hand free and quickly covered his own throbbing erection with lube.  He guided himself to Steve’s ass but held there, one hand on Steve’s knee and the other tight around himself to keep in control.  “Steve…”

Steve cried out, leaning up clumsily, fumbling to touch Bucky’s aching length and bring it inside him.  The second he did, he flopped back to the bed, breathing heavily.  Bucky watched the emotions play across his face – fear and grief and desire and relief and love, _so much love_ – as he painstakingly slowly pushed his way deeper inside.  There wasn’t much resistance, but even still, he didn’t go faster or harder.  Steve was so hot, felt _so right and good,_ but he didn’t take.  He waited, waited for Steve’s body to let him in all the way, and when it finally did and he was completely inside him…

Steve sobbed, flushed red and wheezing again.  Bucky snapped from a blissful trance, leaning down over him in a cold panic.  “Shit, Steve, does it hurt?  I’m so sorry.  I’ll…”  He made to pull out.  But Steve’s good leg clenched around him, of course not as strongly as it once did but enough to make the protest very clear.  He grabbed wildly at Bucky, hauling him close with an arm around his shoulders, and Bucky went.  He kissed Steve, and Steve was frenzied, desperate, wriggling and _wanting_.

So Bucky gave him what he desired.  After a few slow thrusts that were more tormenting than anything else, he settled into a familiar rhythm.  For a moment he feared his own strength, and that was familiar, too.  When Steve had been so small and so ill all the time, he’d always worried about going deeper than Steve could stand, about being too rough and inadvertently hurting him.  If it was hurting now, Steve was only made more frantic for it, holding onto Bucky like he’d shatter without him.  He was wordlessly begging Bucky to go faster, hanging onto him and kissing every section of skin he could find, rolling his hips as best he could to meet every thrust.  It was overwhelming, how amazing it felt.  Bucky lost himself completely.  It was so easy to slip into it, into all the times before this, to the memories, to the sensations.  To the touch of Steve’s skin and the taste of his lips and the soft sounds slipping from his throat.  To the sight of him, blond hair mussed and muscles glistening with perspiration, eyes closed with long lashes dusting the skin before, lips parted and red and inviting.  To the emotions, so strong and pure and as intrinsic to who he was as the blood pumping through his body and the air in his lungs and the nerves all through him that were alight with pleasure.  None of that had changed.

It was as perfect as it always was.

Bucky hitched Steve’s leg up higher, tilting a bit to get a better angle now that Steve was looser and ready for it.  He swiveled his hips, searching, finding, and Steve gave a choked cry.  The blunt edges of his nails were sharp, sweet points of pain in Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky groaned when he clenched down around him.  “God, baby…” he hissed, trying so hard to hold on as the pleasure wound tighter and tighter inside him.  He drove his hips harder, faster, bracketing Steve with his arms and kissing him frantically.  Steve whined into his mouth, trying to get a hand between them to touch himself.  Bucky could feel the hard length of him, painfully trapped between the slick skin of their stomachs.  He curled himself up a bit, and Steve’s knuckles rubbed against his belly as he stroked himself in time with their movements.  Bucky knew Steve was close, could feel it with every ripple of his muscles, could taste it in his kiss, and everything seemed so synchronous, thrusts and touches and breaths and heartbeats, and the way it built and built was so powerful, too deliriously rich and wonderful, too much, too intense, and Bucky just couldn’t hold back any longer.  He let go and flew, taking Steve with him in his arms and soaring.

Slowly, deliciously slowly, he came back to himself.  The roar of pleasure was lethargically fading away, and like a glutton he held onto it, spending himself with a few more ragged, over-stimulated rolls of his hips.  Once the heat of his orgasm was gone, he collapsed onto Steve, utterly exhausted.  He was hot, sweaty, breathing like he’d pushed himself harder than he ever had before, brain bigger than his skull, heart pounding and limbs like liquid.  Every nerve in his body felt alive and at peace, and he basked in it.

Then he blinked away perspiration and lifted his head from the hollow of Steve’s throat to look down at him.  Steve was breathing heavily, too, and staring at him.   For a moment as he looked into Steve’s eyes, he just forgot.  His climax had scattered thoughts, blown away recent memories, and he could only see that striking, gorgeous blue.  The same brilliant blue that had anchored him throughout his life was anchoring him now, holding him as a willing captive, drawing him deep and keeping him.  Bucky smiled, bringing his hands up to cup Steve’s face, wiping away moisture from his cheeks and temples.  All these things he wanted to say were at the tip of his tongue.  _God, baby.  You’re mine.  I love you.  You’re so beautiful._

_Just look at you._

Bucky did look, but there was only the reflection of himself in Steve’s eyes.  And just like that, those eyes filled with tears.  Bucky’s heart filled with horror.  “Steve…  Steve, darlin’, what’s the matter?  Is it your leg?  Did I hurt you?  What–”

“I can…”  Steve’s hands came up again, and they were shaking.  He was shaking, all of him, and his fingertips touched Bucky’s face.  They ghosted over his cheeks, down his nose, across his lips again.  Steve’s own lips twisted in a pained smile, one that betrayed a soul trying and failing to stay strong.  “I can see you.  I’m – I’m okay.  I can still see you.”  Steve was touching his face, _feeling_ him like he’d been feeling the rain earlier.

Seeing him in his memories, because that was all there could be.

He cracked.  A sob came loose.  “I can still…  I see…”  Helplessly he shook his head, tears spilling quickly down his cheeks.  “Oh, God, Buck.  Bucky!” 

Finally.  Finally he came apart completely.

Bucky watched the walls come crashing down, watched the pain and grief come pouring around from behind them like a leaking dam that was now at long last collapsing.  Steve’s face scrunched up in agony, and he grabbed Bucky hard, burying his face into Bucky’s neck.  For a moment, Bucky was scared, because in all their years together, Steve had never done this.  He’d never so openly cried, never lost control of his emotions, never let himself grieve like this.  Not when he’d been so sick as a kid.  Not when the bullies had bruised and tormented him.  Not when his mother had died.  Not even on the helicarrier or when Bucky’s own pain during his recovery had been at its worst.  This was terrifying.

But the fear only lasted a moment.  Bucky knew what he needed to do.  He knew because this, too, was intrinsic to who he was.  So he wrapped his arms around Steve and gathered him against him, carefully laying his weight over him to protect him.  “It’s alright,” he murmured into Steve’s sweaty hair.  “It’s alright.  I’m here.  Let it go.”

Steve was trembling violently.  “Buck!”

“Let it go, love.”

That was all it took.  Steve wailed, his voice muffled by Bucky’s shoulder.  Bucky hushed him, pulling him up to get him into his embrace more.  He slid from Steve’s body, sticky with fluid, but he didn’t think Steve even noticed.  Steve was crying too intensely, sobbing roughly, nearly hyperventilating.  Bucky cupped the back of his head.  “It’s alright, Steve.  Breathe.  Just breathe, baby.”

“I can’t see you!” Steve gasped.  “I can’t see you!”

Bucky closed his eyes and rubbed his hand up and down Steve’s shuddering back.  “I know.”

“I can’t lose you!”  The words were so fast, slurred with pain and desperation.  “In my memories…  You’re so bright.  So beautiful…”

“Stevie–”

“If the – if my memories fade…”

“They won’t.”  Bucky didn’t know that.  He couldn’t know that.  But he had to believe.  “They won’t.”

“I won’t be able to see you,” Steve moaned.  His voice escalated, climbing into another ragged cry, and Bucky hushed him more, holding him tighter.  Steve shivered.  “I’ll lose you for good.”

“Don’t think about that,” Bucky implored.  “That won’t happen, okay?  It won’t.”

“And the serum–”

“Easy, sweetheart.”

“Without the serum…  I’ll…  You’ll live longer than me.”

 _Jesus._   Bucky shut his eyes tight, his heart pounding and the room spinning.  Throughout all of this, he hadn’t once thought about that.  The serum had retarded if not stopped both of them from aging.  It was part of what it did, part of the enhanced cellular protection and regeneration it proffered.  That truth had always been there, a comfort to them both.  Their lives together could go on for much, much longer, like some sort of reward for all the hellish years they’d been forced apart.  Now…  Steve was right.  Without the serum, he’d live a normal, human lifespan.  He’d grow old.  He’d die someday.

And Bucky wouldn’t.

Steve was still sobbing deeply.  “Bucky–”

Bucky swallowed a cry of his own.  “Don’t think about that either,” he said again, his voice timid and rough.  “Okay?  Just don’t think about it.  Don’t think about any of this.”

“Please–”

“I love you, Steve, and you love me, and no matter what, we’ll find a way to get through this.  We always do.”

“Just don’t leave me,” Steve whimpered.  He was holding on so tight, shaking so hard he was nearly shaking them both.  “Don’t leave me!”

Bucky didn’t let himself shake.  He didn’t let himself crumble.  He didn’t let himself fall.  He wasn’t going to break.  He wasn’t going to let the pain win.  _Never._   He knew where he needed to be.  He knew _what_ he needed to be.  He knew what he needed to do.

He needed to do what Steve had always done.  And he needed to be what Steve always had been for him.  _Strong._

“Never.”  He kissed Steve’s temple, caressing his back over and over again.  And he’d say it all, everything he needed to, _over and over again._   “You know somethin’?” he whispered softly into Steve’s ear.  “Been thinkin’ about what you said.  The last time we made love…  Before all this.  About how you always saw me.  About how you see me.”  Steve shuddered, getting more agitated, and but Bucky didn’t give up.  “I see you, too.  I’ve seen you your whole life.  I’ve seen you be small and I’ve seen you strong and tall.  I’ve seen you sick and I’ve seen you so healthy that I thanked God for such a blessing, such a wonderful gift.  I’ve seen you as Captain America, but I’ve seen you as that little guy, too.  The one too dumb not to run away from a fight.  I’ve seen you be a good son and a talented artist and a defender of smaller kids from schoolyard bullies.  I’ve seen you lead troops, lead _heroes,_ and I’ve seen you fall, Steve.  I’ve seen you fall more than anyone.  And that’s why I know…  Listen to me.”  He pulled Steve away from his shoulder, pushed him gently back to look in his eyes.  “That’s why I know the serum wasn’t _ever_ what made you strong.  You’re strong because you’re you.  The serum didn’t make you who you are.  You did.”

Steve grimaced.  “Buck…”

“I’ve seen who you were.  I’ve seen who you are.  And I know what you’ll always be: the same amazin’, determined person who makes the world a better, brighter, _stronger_ place by just bein’ in it.  The same person I fell in love with the day I first laid my eyes on you.  Before I even knew what love was, I knew I loved you.  I knew bein’ with you would make me better and brighter and stronger, too.  And I knew I’d follow you anywhere.”  Bucky smiled through his tears.  “And you know what else?  You don’t need to see to know where you’re goin’, Steve.  Your heart tells you that, not your eyes.”

Steve’s eyes were still thick with tears, lips bitten red and face splotchy.  His expression collapsed anew.  Bucky pulled him close again and kissed his mouth before tucking him into his arms.  “So don’t worry about anythin’.  Not right now.  We’ll deal with it.  We’ll cross those bridges when we get there.  For now, just… just let it go.  It’s alright, love.  Just cry.  Just let it out.  You don’t have to be strong tonight.  Not for me and not for anyone else.  Not even for you.”  Bucky sighed gently, combing his fingers through Steve’s hair.  “I’ve got you, Steve.  I’ve always got you.  We’ll figure it out, alright?  I’ll lead for a bit, and together we’ll get there.”

_We’ll get there._

It took a long time, but Steve eventually wore himself out crying.  His loud, painful sobs turned into softer weeping before quieting even more to hitched breaths and sniffling.  Not for a second did Bucky let him go.  Once he was calmer, Bucky gently untangled their bodies and laid Steve flatter on the bed.  He cradled Steve’s face in his hands, staring into his glassy eyes and finding their endlessness not as frightening as it had been.  It was more at peace, more filled with wearied understanding and acceptance.  He kissed Steve’s forehead.  “I’ll get something to clean you up, okay?  I’ll be right back.”

Steve gave a small, exhausted nod and let Bucky go.  Bucky made his way to the bathroom, stopping by the pile of his clothes from his duffel and fishing out a pair of pajamas.  Once there, he wiped himself clean and got dressed in the fresh boxers and cotton pants.  As he was doing that, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the vanity again.  His cheeks were glistening wetly, and his hair was a mess, and he looked so exhausted.

But he also looked… calm.  That same calm he’d seen in Steve’s eyes he found in his own, the same tentative sense of strength and purpose.  He watched himself a moment, struck with that similar feeling that this was a stranger yet someone who was familiar.  Who he was and who he had been.  Who he could be.

His eyes drifted down to Steve’s dog tags around his neck.  His wedding ring glimmered there in the light.  Without a second thought, he took the necklace off and carefully removed the ring from the chain.  For a moment, he simply stared at it where it rested in his metal palm, simple and elegant and beautiful.  Then he released a breath he felt like he’d been holding for months and slid it onto his left ring finger.  It fit perfectly, and the gold band looked _right_ against the black of his hand.  It looked pure and true.  It looked like it belonged.

That was because he belonged.

_I’ll lead for now._

He went back to the bedroom.  Steve was still lying naked in the bed, head turned to the side and staring once more at the rain where it sang against the room’s windows.  Bucky came over with a damp washcloth and gently began to clean him, careful to make sure he was comfortable, that his bad leg and other sore places weren’t troubling him.  Steve melted wearily under his massaging fingers, clearly exhausted and a little out of it.  Once Bucky was through with that, he found Steve a clean pair of underwear and his pajamas from before.  With tender hands and soft words, he got him dressed and tucked into the bed.  Then he dimmed the lights and climbed in beside him, gathering him into his embrace before laying kisses to the crown of his head.

It was quiet.  The silence felt good.  Bucky drifted in it, lulled by the whisper of the rain and Steve’s soft, easy breathing.  This, too, could have been any one of so many times before it.  Time didn’t have much meaning here and now, where memories of the past seemed to intertwine with these moments of the present.  Maybe that was what made it so easy to finally ask what needed to be asked, what he should have asked a long time ago.  “Steve?” Bucky murmured, rubbing his metal fingers up Steve’s spine.  “Stevie, are you awake?”

He knew Steve was.  Steve sighed against his chest.  “Yeah.”  His quiet voice sounded steady again, a little raw and hoarse but steady.  “Yeah, Buck.”

Bucky stared into the shadows overhead.  They weren’t so deep anymore.  Not so scary.  And the words just came.  “Someone needs to lead the team.  Someone needs to be Captain America.  Fury came to me and…  He asked if I would.”  He took a breath and found his bravery.  “He asked me if I would take your place.  Take up your shield and fight.”

Steve said nothing.  He didn’t move.  The silence that followed felt unyielding, but Bucky resisted the urge to submit and surrender.  He went on.  “He asked me to be Captain America.  He asked me, Steve.  I…  I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

“Do you…”  Steve’s fingers curled lightly, possessively, across his hip.  “Do you want to?”

Bucky didn’t know.

No.  No, he _did_ know.  He knew.  He could do this.  He could be something that good, that right, that important.  He could, and he had to, because the world needed Captain America.

And because Steve loved him.  “Yes.”

Silence again.  Then a shivery sigh and a brush of lips to his chest.  “Then I want you to.”

“Yeah?”

He felt Steve smile.  It was a real smile, not the mask he’d worn so often since he’d been hurt.  Not the façade of strength and courage he’d donned for everyone else’s sake.  This smile was wet with tears, tremulous, uncertain but trying, hurt but so hopeful all the same.  “Yeah.  I believe in you.  I trust you more than anyone.”

Bucky could hardly breathe for how his heart swelled.  “You trust me with your shield?  You trust me to have it?”

“I want you to have it.”

 _God, Steve…_   Bucky closed his eyes.  “I’ll…  I’ll do right by it.  By you.  I swear to you, Steve.  I’ll honor it.  I’ll do everything I can to live up to it.”

Steve’s voice was a soft, loving whisper.  “You already do, Buck.”

They didn’t speak again.  Steve fell asleep not long after.  It came easily, and he was lax and peaceful in Bucky’s arms.  Bucky carded his metal fingers lightly through Steve’s hair, watching the blond strands slip between them.  Watching the fading, gray daylight shine on his wedding ring.  He stared, lingered a bit longer, feeling content and hopeful and…

_Ready._

That was what he was.  He was ready now.  Ready to do what needed to be done.  Ready to move on.  Ready to become whatever he had to.  Steve had known what he’d needed, and in a way, Steve had given it to him.  Steve had given him a chance to see the truth, had made him see himself as he really was, had blasted away his own blindness so that he could find his faith again.  So that he could find himself.  That was incredible, just how Steve had led him to this place, how Steve had taken care of him.

Not just that.  They’d done what they’d always done: taken care of each other.

Bucky harbored no delusions.  Things that felt good now might not always.  The sorrow would return.  So would the pain and the grief.  The heartache and doubt.  Those bridges they still had to cross would remain, waiting in the distance, and the road to them would not be straight or simple.  Recovery wasn’t linear.  It never would be.  Nothing would be easy, but they’d find their way.  They had faith, grace, courage.  They had determination.  They had each other and their family.  Together they’d figure it out.  They always had, and they always would.

So he slipped away from the waking world confident, dreaming of a silver star and listening to Steve breathe.


	14. Chapter 14

**PART THREE**

 

Captain America was a hero.

And heroes got up when they fell.

They got up and they fought on.  They refused to surrender, refused to submit.  Against all odds and great adversity, heroes remained steadfast.  They stayed firm, no matter the hurt and suffering to themselves.  Should they be struck down, they simply struggled back to their feet, planting themselves bleeding but bravely right back between evil and innocents without a second thought.  That was what being a hero meant.

That was what being Captain America meant.  That was the symbol, the legend, the burden and honor and responsibility.  The duty that went far beyond patriotism or allegiance to any army, nation, or flag.  Captain America’s place was to endure when all else was lost.  To walk through darkness, through hellfire, through doubt and pain and fear and sorrow and be transformed by it rather than supplanted.  To lead when everyone else faltered and everything seemed lost.  Captain America always stood back up.

Despite this harrowing experience, he would this time, as well.  He would come back different and scarred but still strong and brave.  Still tough and resilient.  Still the image and icon he always had been, maybe scuffed and scraped but shining.  Captain America continued to embody everything he always had before.  To the Avengers, he was a leader, a commander, a mentor, a brother and friend.  To their enemies, he was a threat, and not just because he was the world’s greatest soldier.

It was because, to the people, he was hope.  He would always be hope.  He was hope because he endured.  He was proof of the strength of the human heart and the decency of the human condition.  That was why he had to persevere, and even in this darkest of times, he had.  The world was worrying, fretting, holding its breath, waiting for some sign that their beloved hero would return to them. 

That sign was coming.  After months of silence and frightened speculation, the Avengers would speak.  Captain America was finally returning to duty, to the team, to the public eye and to the battlefield.  Captain America was coming back, new yet the same.  Damaged yet strong and beautiful.  Born and reborn again.

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

* * *

 

“I can’t do this,” Bucky mumbled as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.  He hardly recognized himself.  It wasn’t his face; that was about the same as ever.  Brown hair that he’d recently cut shorter in a more stylized, modern version of how he’d used to wear it as a young man.  The beginnings of a beard covering his chin and jaw.  Gray eyes that still, even after all of this, didn’t always seem like his own.  Right now they were filled with fear.  Even he could see that.  “God, I can’t do this.”

“Yeah, you can,” Steve assured.  He was behind Bucky in their bedroom, sitting on their bed with his bad leg stretched out ahead of him.  He had his new brace on, the one Tony had designed a couple months back.  The gray plastic and metal were wrapped around Steve’s right thigh and knee, supporting the joint while allowing it to bend more fluidly by interfacing with sensors Bruce and Doctor Cho had surgically implanted.  Between that and all the hard work and strenuous effort Steve had put into physical therapy, he’d regained a tremendous amount of mobility, though nothing quite removed his limp.  The brace was also a little painful and a tad tiring to use.  Tony was already planning a newer version that would hopefully be lighter and less uncomfortable.  It might even be possible that Steve would be able to wear the brace under his pants leg.

Tony hadn’t had time to make those improvements yet, because he’d been busy designing Captain America a new tac suit.  That was what was so wrong about Bucky’s reflection, the thing that was so blatantly _off_ about it.  His eyes went to the taut lines of his shoulders, one covered by the suit and the other, the metal one, bare, revealing gold and black vibranium.  He looked down further, to the Kevlar mesh and protective padding Tony had used to construct the uniform.  It was a bit darker than Steve’s old one, a deep, Navy blue that made the silver star upon his chest all that much more striking.  The emblem was flanked by angular, gleaming gray lines, like grooves between plates, that ran down the uniform’s one arm.  The midsection of the suit had the same white and red as Steve had customarily worn, but the white lines joined over the lower abdomen, crossing and flanked by the crimson sections.  The suit’s pants were black, again made of that thick, protective mesh.  The combat boots were also varying dark shades, grays and cobalt and shining metal enclosures.  The belt was more substantial than Steve’s had been, made to carry firearms and other weapons.  The harness Steve had always worn to carry his shield was also present, thick, dark leather that felt odd where it was wrapped around his shoulders to his back.

The whole thing was odd and new and more than a little disturbing.  When Tony had offered to design him his own suit last week, he’d been hesitant.  Until now, he’d been Captain America in name only.  No, not even in name.  _In theory._   Despite the months that had passed since Wakanda, nothing official had been done or said in regards to his new position.  Some weeks ago, after the Avengers had yet again gone out to fight without Captain America in their midst thus causing another panicked public outcry, Fury had finally conceded that an announcement needed to be made with regard to Steve’s situation.  Steve had insisted he be present, even though he himself had still been recovering emotionally and physically from his decision to resect the serum.  Watching the press conference had been a brutally painful experience.  Seeing Steve up there at the podium, flanked by Tony and the other Avengers, saying what he’d wanted to say from memory without a thing to guide him, his empty gaze lowered unknowingly to the microphone in front of him instead of focused on the crowd around him, his eyes watery and his voice tremoring but sure…  It had been devastating, both for the team and for the world that had just then come to know how very damaged their hero was.  He was never coming back to them, never raising his shield in their defense again.

Nothing had been said at the time of Bucky’s decision to replace him.  In some sense, that had fueled the tension in the press even further.  People had argued, debated, panicked, bemoaned Steve’s loss, sworn off the Avengers as a whole without him, speculated as to what would happened next, if anyone else would step up to lead the team.  There’d been a lot of talk that it would be Tony, of course, which only further divided the public since many couldn’t past Tony’s previous indiscretions and mistakes to appreciate the great man he’d become.  More gossip and rumors had propagated that perhaps it would be Sam or even Natasha or that no one would take Steve’s mantle.  No one had really considered the Winter Soldier donning the persona.  Bucky didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

Today would be the deciding factor in that regard, if Bucky could summon the courage to actually do this.  He felt like it should be easier than it was.  The Avengers had been training like crazy as a team for the past couple months.  They’d been relearning to work together, to function without Steve, to adapt to Bucky’s leadership.  Bucky, too, had been learning, adjusting his fighting style from less a sniper to more a soldier in the field.  It had been a long time since he’d managed himself in combat in such a way, so the prospect of not only leading by orders but by example was intimidating to say the least.  Captain America wasn’t watching the fight from afar atop a building or stealthily creeping among the shadows or some such; he was always down in the thick of it, protecting civilians, directly engaged with the enemy, leading the battle rather than holding up the rear.  Bucky had to embrace that.  He had to think more about the mission’s consequences and implications rather than just its objectives.  Steve was helping with that, running through simulations with him, instructing him in the tactical ins and outs of avoiding casualties while achieving goals, helping him transition from an assassin to a leader.  Of course, Bucky had been learning how to be a hero from Steve his whole life, from a back alley in Brooklyn to the forests of Germany to the burning deck of a falling helicarrier to the streets of modern cities in a fight against unimaginable foes.  He found comfort in that, that deep down inside, this was familiar and true, even if a rifle didn’t feel right in his hands anymore, even if his instincts, born from years under HYDRA’s rule, told him something other than what he knew was moral and responsible.  He could do this job, do it right, do it well.

Still, even as the team saw that, really got a feel for his burgeoning competence and confidence, he hadn’t become Captain America to them, not wholly.  He wasn’t _Cap._   They still called Steve that.  They always would, always _should._   Bucky was absolutely alright with that.  Some things shouldn’t change, and definitely included among those was Steve’s place in the team’s collective hearts.  From the moment they’d gathered their friends together to make the announcement that Bucky would be taking Steve’s place, nothing had seemed quite real.  And it wasn’t as if anyone on the team had directly objected.  Well, not to him.  A few – Thor, in particular, but Peter and Wanda and Sam surprisingly (or not, considering the debate he’d had with Bucky about this what felt like a lifetime ago) – hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of anyone taking Steve’s place.  Their emotions ranged from stiff reluctance to restrained anger to deep-set grief-stricken to unabashed fear, even with Steve’s assurances that it was alright, that he _wanted_ Bucky to be Captain America, that no one was _taking_ his place.  He simply couldn’t fight anymore, could never fight again with the super soldier serum permanently removed from his body.  There was no chance of a complete recovery.  Steve was strong for them, certain for them, so they could be strong in the face of so much change.  Acceptance came in steps and stages for them all.

And this today would be a hell of a big step forward.

“It’ll be fine,” Steve promised.  He gave a wry grin.  “If I could do it, then so can you.”

“You weren’t a wanted fugitive,” Bucky muttered.  He turned back to the mirror, running his metal hand down the middle of the uniform again like he needed to smooth it out.  It didn’t feel too different against his skin as his own combat suit.  If only he could get his brain in line with his senses.

“And you _aren’t_ one, either.”  Steve sighed, and Bucky shifted a bit to see his husband’s image in the mirror.  He wasn’t even looking toward him.  He didn’t so that so much anymore, didn’t put so much effort into trying to figure out where people were when he talked to them.  In the months before, it had always been roving eyes and sharp head movements and general desperation to localize those around him.  Now he was comfortable enough to simply be as he was, comfortable enough to be _obvious_ about the fact he couldn’t see.  Comfortable enough not to fake it.  That was saying a lot.

Steve shook his head and went on.  “There are going to be people who don’t like this, Buck.  It’s inevitable.  But you know what?  They’ll get over it.”

Bucky wasn’t so sure of that.  It was bad enough months back when he’d first become an Avenger.  Becoming Captain America, though?  He grimaced, adjusting the enclosures on his fingerless glove on his right hand again.  “Maybe they won’t if we flaunt it in their faces.  I kinda hoped when Fury said he wanted to do this press conference that someone else could go out there and make the announcement.  Like I could just sneak onto the field one day and that’d be that.  No big deal.”

Steve climbed clumsily to his feet.  Dodger had been sitting on the floor beside him, watching him attentively, and the second he started moving toward where Bucky stood, the dog followed.  They’d had Dodger about three months now.  He was a godsend.  After Shuri and her team in Wakanda had removed the damaged genes for the serum from Steve’s DNA, he’d had a difficult recovery, both physically and emotionally.  It had taken him a few days to feel well enough to return to the States and many more after that to feel like himself again.  The grieving process that had begun in Wakanda continued, and once Steve had settled into it, it had been rather consuming.  That stoic mask had simply and finally fallen away, revealing a pulsing, bleeding wound in Steve’s spirit.  He’d gone through periods of anger, of frustration, of depression.  He’d tried very hard to keep his suffering private and contained to his relationship with Bucky, not wanting to seem upset in front of the team during their difficult transition in case it bred doubt among them.  That was brave but stupid, and they’d definitely noticed.  There hadn’t been much to do, though, other than guide him through as much as he would let them.  Bucky himself had watched it all, feeling helpless at times but mostly determined to do whatever it took to help.  That was what Steve had done for him, after all, when he’d gone through a similar dark period.

Thus he’d been a shoulder to cry on, a listener, a sympathizer and a motivator, a stalwart encourager, a silent companion when words were too much or too hard, offering a smile in painful moments and a kiss whenever Steve wanted one.  He’d pushed when Steve needed the push, backed off when Steve needed the space, stood at his side through everything even as he’d struggled himself to find his footing in this new yet familiar role.  He didn’t let himself show fear or worry or uncertainty; for Steve’s sake, he kept that all under the hood, looked for comfort in Sam and Natasha so he could stay strong.  More than once he worried that Steve had made a mistake getting rid of the damaged serum, that regret was what was driving Steve’s depression most of all.  Still, he’d stayed patient and pushed onward.  He’d made himself keep promising that things would get better.

And they did.  Dodger had been a big part of that.  Bucky had regularly coordinated with Bernard, who was still providing Steve with occupational therapy, and the other man had once again suggested the introduction of a service dog in Steve’s life.  Not only would the dog aid in his mobility and independence, he’d argued, but animal therapy could be an effective means of treating PTSD and depression.  Bucky had never much put stock into that idea until they’d brought Dodger home.  Dodger was a large Golden/Labrador retriever mix, a bit more reddish than blond with fluffy tail and a happy disposition.  Steve had balked at the idea at first, but once he’d met the dog and trained with him for a couple weeks under the careful tutelage of an instructor, all his reservations had melted.  He’d fallen in love instantly.  The amount of comfort he got from the dog, from petting his full, soft coat, from walking with him right there to guide him, from snuggling close and feeling safe and secure, was unbelievable.  It was strange in a way but Steve had developed a bond with the dog that was very unique.  He hadn’t said as much, but Bucky thought it might be because Dodger only existed to him through touch and sound.  Steve had never seen him, didn’t have that frame of reference, so there was no painful reminder of the visual sensations he could never have again.  It was the first relationship he’d come into in this new way living, and he’d wholly embraced it.  They were rarely apart now.

So even without his lead and harness, Dodger came obediently to sit right next to Steve as Steve stood at Bucky’s side.  He regarded Bucky with kind brown eyes, panting lightly, and Bucky reached over and pet his head, scratching lightly at his ears.  Having the dog there was a comfort to him, too.  “Not keen on big deals,” he mumbled.

“Ah, c’mon, Buck,” Steve said.  “You’ll win ’em over.  Ma always said you were a charmer.”

“A lifetime ago, yeah,” Bucky said, trying to remember what that had felt like.  He couldn’t, and it wasn’t just because his memories were still screwed up sometimes.

“Got me, didn’t ya?  I also seem to recall everyone fawnin’ all over you.”

Bucky grunted.  “Yeah, well, I’m not that kid anymore.”

“Don’t need to be,” Steve replied.

Bucky sighed, shaking his head.  “I don’t like public stuff.”  Like that needed to be said.

“I never did, either.  But Captain America did get his start in the USO show, or did you forget?  At least you’re not wearin’ tights.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.  Steve was grinning just a bit deviously as he found the wall beside the mirror.  Bucky watched as Steve bent down, seeing his husband’s muscles flex under his jeans and shirt.  They were nicely more pronounced again, not as perfect as they had been, of course, but still remarkable.  Steve had taken to working out often now that he was more mobile and healthier.  His weak lungs still plagued him, though they were better.  Once the damaged serum was out of his body, Doctor Cho had been able to develop and administer a specialized treatment with her regeneration cradle.  She had been eager to do something in the wake of their initial failure months ago, both because she felt so terrible about how poorly things had gone and because she’d wanted to prove to herself that she could be helpful, so she’d worked with Bruce for weeks before returning to the complex with her new procedure.  Steve had been wary at first, but with prodding on Tony’s and Bucky’s parts he’d agreed to try it.  It had worked quite well, helping with his respiration rate and oxygenation of his blood.  The damaged and reduced lung tissue couldn’t be restored so simply, but over time and with repeated exposure, she was confident she could improve his lung function and breathing long-term.

At the moment, though, his diminished lung capacity was still tiring him out a lot and causing him trouble and chest pain.  Steve didn’t let that slow him down much.  He never had as a kid, and he didn’t now.  He was more and more active and mobile.  He’d been learning to use his other senses, sound and touch in particular and they were keener than ever before, to train again.  There was simply no getting the soldier – the fighter – out of him, and that was fine.  This was who he was, and who he was would never be limited by his physical body.  Bucky was continually amazed and just how well Steve could handle himself during workouts, how well he performed even in the sparring ring.  It was still incredible watching him fight as he reclaimed that fluid grace, that power, that beauty and confidence.  He remained a master martial artist, even more awesome for how easy he made it seem without the aid of his eyes and with his injuries slowing him down.  He was absolutely incredible.

And cheeky as hell as he smugly cocked an eyebrow.  “It’s all part of the job.”

Bucky turned back to the mirror, his stomach clenching up in knots all over again.  No matter how he saw himself, he just didn’t look right.  Even having cut his hair and trimmed up his beard and everything else…  All that doubt came rushing to the surface in a tidal wave.  “Jesus.  I can’t do this, Steve!  I can’t go out there in your uniform.”

“It’s not my uniform,” Steve said simply.  His glazed eyes were staring at the wall.  “It’s yours.”

Bucky wanted to object further, but he couldn’t.  Steve was absolutely right.  This was _his_ uniform.  It was different from Captain America’s suit, and Steve had never worn it.  The new suit was a combination of Captain America and the Winter Soldier in a sense, red, white, and blue juxtaposed with black and silver, the colors of the nation mixed and contrasted with those of the Winter Soldier.  It was a reminder of what Steve had been saying for a couple weeks now: this wasn’t about Bucky replacing him.  It wasn’t about Bucky taking over.  It was about Bucky becoming something new, not just what he was or what Steve had been.  It was truly the combination of both of them, Steve’s legacy and his future. 

As Steve kept trying to tell him.  As Tony was subtly indicating with the way he’d made this.  He just needed to believe it himself.

Bucky frowned and turned back to his husband, who was now offering his shield up to him.  It had been recently repainted to the iconic red, blue, and silver, finally restored after the fateful battle months ago.  The vibranium was highly polished, perfect and shining in their bedroom’s light.  Steve’s eyes were a little wet as he lifted it higher.  “All yours.”

Heart pounding, Bucky swallowed down the knot in his throat.  “How can you be so okay with this?” he whispered, staring at the shield.

“I have to be for you,” Steve replied.  Then he gave a weak smile and a tip of his head.  “And for myself.  And I really am alright with it all.  Really.”  His smile got stronger.  “I know this is right.”

Bucky hesitated a moment more before finally finding the strength to accept what was being given.  It always took him aback, just how light the shield was.  He’d held it plenty of times before; he’d even been practicing with it recently under Steve’s tutelage, learning to use it more effectively.  To retrain his body for the protection of others, rather than using it as weapon.  Tony had even been toying with the idea of installing tiny electromagnets along the shield’s grips that would react with emitters that could be integrated into Bucky’s arm, creating a powerful retrieval system.  It would be an improvement maybe, if only it didn’t hurt so much to let go of the past.

He had to ignore that, though.  If Steve could be okay with all of this, then he needed to be, too.  That hadn’t changed at least.  So he swept his hand over the smooth edge of the shield, taking a moment to gather himself, before sliding it to his back.  That felt weird and wrong, too, but he let it go, let himself think he could get used to it.  He would get used to it.

“How’s it look?”  Steve was staring uselessly at the mirror.  “I bet you look amazing.  Of course you do.”  He was still smiling, but Bucky could feel his pain and grief below the encouragement.  It wasn’t angry or unresolved like it had been.  Steve reached forward, brushing his fingers over the chest of the uniform, feeling and exploring.  “I wish I could see it.”

Bucky turned at that and cupped Steve’s face in his hands.  Steve had let his beard grow in fully over the last few months.  He’d never been much of a fan of shaving before, but since losing his sight, he’d completely given up on anything but the bare minimum of not looking like a caveman.  Some of it had been the depression, Bucky knew.  “You will,” he promised, smiling himself, rubbing his thumbs along the soft bristle along Steve’s jaw. “I know you will.”

Steve’s grin turned nervous, like he didn’t want to listen.  He didn’t want to hope again.  This time, though, Bucky was pretty sure hope was warranted.   A couple weeks back, Parker’s plan to find a way to restore some of Steve’s vision had gone into effect.  It was a combined effort, Peter’s idea and Tony’s determination and Bruce’s wisdom and Shuri’s genius.  They were all working together, and this distant concept of designing a system that could act as Steve’s eyes had taken flight.  Peter had very literally drawn his inspiration from a blind character on an older sci-fi television show that had aired in the 1990s.  Through new and emerging technology, various types of glasses had already been developed to aid a blind person in navigating the world.  These special devices were a bit like smart phones, and they could help identify familiar places, recognize known faces, and even warn of dangers.  That alone was pretty incredible.

What Peter was proposing went well beyond that.  With the help of neural implants Shuri and Bruce were designing, it seemed possible (maybe even likely if you believed Tony’s more optimistic estimates) that Steve would be able detect heat signatures, light, motion, the shapes of faces and objects, perhaps even some true color.  The implants would be surgically inserted at his temples and wired directly into the occipital lobe of his brain where visual processing occurred.  That would thereby bypass the damaged optic nerve.  Then he would wear special glasses, developed by Tony and Peter, that, with the help of Friday and the same sort of high-tech camera technology that powered Iron Man’s HUD, would transmit information to Steve’s brain that it would hopefully process like visual stimuli.  It was all extremely experimental, and the team of scientists had been very quick to make the limitations known.  They weren’t sure exactly of the extent of the damage to Steve’s brain, so that meant there was a distinct possibility this wouldn’t work at all.  There was also the possibility that his brain wouldn’t be able to interpret what was being streamed to it.  The speed and resolution at which the glasses could “process” the real world was going to be limited.  Plus there could be side effects, including migraines from prolonged use and vertigo.  In short, even if it worked, it wasn’t going to be perfect.

They didn’t need perfect.  The mere thought of Steve being able to see _anything_ again was incredible.  Since Bucky had started training to become Captain America, there’d been this painful worry slipping around his thoughts: what would Steve do now?  It had been there before when he’d argued with Fury that last time, but it had seemed a minor worry then.  Now it was more imminent.  Obviously doing something with art wasn’t going to be easy.  More than once during the long stretch of depression a couple months back Bucky had caught Steve with his sketchbook, flipping through the pictures and studying them like he could still see them, running his fingers over the pages like he could feel the pencil lines.  It had broken his heart all over again.  Art as he’d created it before was out of the question at the moment.  So was fighting, at least not outside of a training situation.  Despite his lamed leg and weak lungs, Steve was still capable of doing quite a bit on the sparring mat, muscle memory and his other senses guiding him well.  But it was too risky to even consider him joining the Avengers in any combat capacity.

Which had them uncertain.  The thought of Steve being left behind while everyone else went out to fight…  Well, it was as painful and sour now as it had been when Bucky had argued with Fury months ago.  It reminded him too closely of how things had been right before the war, with Steve frantically trying to enlist while every able-bodied man around them shipped out to fight.  The frustration they’d both felt was somehow still so sharp.  It would be terrible for Steve to be excluded once again because of his health.  To have his future narrowed and limited like that.

 _No._   It wasn’t just about learning to live with it.  It was learning to let it be a part of you.  That meant redefining yourself into someone newer and stronger, _better_ for the trials you overcame and the heartache you bested.  They were both doing that.

Regardless, Project: VISOR (again, a reference to this show – Bucky was going to have to sit down and watch it sometime) was nearing completion.  T’Challa and Shuri were flying in from Wakanda next week so that Shuri could aid in implanting the neuroelectric interfaces.  The surgical procedure wasn’t terribly dangerous, but it would be long and potentially difficult.  If all went to plan, Steve could be using these new glasses by the end of the following week.  Steve could see _something,_ even if it was artificial and limited, in a few days.  That was unbelievable. 

Being burned so often in the past had tempered Steve’s faith.  Bucky was the one with more now in this regard.  He cradled Steve’s face, staring into his eyes like he always did even though Steve wasn’t focused on him or anything else.  Then he kissed him, slow and gently at first before pulling Steve closer and deepening it.  Steve slid his hands over the front of the uniform more, tracing the star, the seams, the lines of the shoulders, before wrapping around Bucky’s neck.  Like so many things of late, this felt unusual, new, and odd, kissing Steve with Steve dressed in civilian clothes and Bucky himself in a tac suit.  In Captain America’s new suit, no less, with Captain America’s shield on his back.  How many times had it been the other way around?  During the war and now here, when Bucky had been back in their suite recovering and Steve had gone off and fought.  As the moment went on, though, it ended up not being as off-putting as it had first seemed.

The sound of a throat being loudly cleared had them pulling away from each other.  Bucky turned and saw Sam at their bedroom door, dressed in his own combat attire as the Falcon.  He gave an apologetic smile.  “You ready to go down?”  Then he was looking Bucky over.  There was a touch of pain in his eyes, but mostly it was just amazement.  “Looks good.”

 _Doesn’t feel good._   Bucky turned back to the mirror, giving himself one last, nervous once-over.  “Thanks.”

Sam nodded.  He glanced worriedly at Steve, checking – always checking, these days – if Steve was okay.  It wasn’t meant as a sign of doubt in Bucky; Sam had been more supportive of this venture as of late as they’d settled into it.  This was just a natural response because he loved Steve.  The whole transition was only working because Steve supported it.  Even though Bucky was trying to step into his shoes and become the Avengers’ captain, that would only happen if Steve let it happen, and everyone knew that.  “How are you doing, Cap?” Sam asked quietly.

Steve gathered himself with a sniffle and then a smile.  “Good.”  He limped a few steps before the brace did its job and got his leg working better.  Then he found his walking cane (always in the same place – that was a mantra around here now) and used that to help him navigate around the bedroom to get his sunglasses.  Neither Sam nor Bucky helped him, not anymore.  He could handle it just fine.  With the glasses on, he got Dodger’s harness.  “Is everything ready?” he asked as he called Dodger to him to get him prepared.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  He folded his arms across his chest and appraised them both.  “You should see the crowd out there.”

“God,” Bucky moaned.  “That’s not makin’ me feel better.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam was quick to say.  “You won’t be alone.”

Bucky swallowed and nodded.  A few short moments later, Steve had Dodger ready to go, and they were heading out the door, Steve flanked by Bucky and Sam with Dodger walking between him.  They didn’t really need to do this anymore; Steve and Dodger could navigate the complex quite well, particularly the living areas.  On top of that, Tony had Friday constantly ready to assist Steve in everything from giving directions and warnings to reading to him to describing anything he desired.  And, on top of that, Tony had installed Braille placards around the area in the unlikely event Steve couldn’t access the computer system.  He’d also added more handrails and had additional elevators put in for places where there once had been only stairs.

Steve used it all.  As the occupational therapists had suggested, he’d more directly embraced the various tools around him to help him adapt and live.  Perhaps it wasn’t strictly necessary but he was very quickly learning Braille.  Bucky was, too, and he was pretty sure Sam, Natasha, and Tony were studying enough to at least have the basics down.  Steve was also regularly seeing a therapist to help him with the transition.  Even though his mental and emotional state was much improved over how it had been after losing the serum completely, he still had moments where he bottled up his feelings rather than talking them through.  That was who he was, even without the shield and the star on his chest.  Bucky didn’t want to change that about him, but he didn’t need to act so strong and stoic all the time now.  He didn’t need to constantly carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And he didn’t need to be _okay_ all the time.

Right now, though, Bucky was the one who was feeling very much not okay.  They’d gone down one of the elevators from the living quarters, and now they were walking across the complex to the press room.  Every step seemed to portend doom for how Bucky’s heart was pounding.  His stomach was tied up in knots, his breath shallow and his skin breaking out in a clammy sweat beneath the suit.  The suit that was feeling more and more constrictive and wrong on his skin.  And the shield that felt like it weighed more than the world right now.  He couldn’t do this.  It wasn’t right.  _He_ wasn’t right.  He couldn’t be Captain America.  He was too damaged, too wrong, too tainted and corrupted and _evil_ …

_I can’t do this._

By the time they reached the rear of the press room, Bucky had worked himself up so badly that he could hardly keep going forward.  For the first time in weeks, _months,_ the Winter Soldier felt like he was lurking in the back of his mind, urging him to flee, to fight.  The rest of the team was standing at the doors into the press room, and they were all dressed in their battle garb.  Thor and Hawkeye and Black Widow.  Scarlet Witch and Vision.  Spider-man and War Machine and Bruce.  Iron Man.  Tony turned to them when they approached, his helmet missing from the armor, and offered a tense smile.  “Everyone’s here.”

That was obvious.  The hum of talk from just beyond the doors was intense.  There were probably dozens of reporters there, dozens and dozens, and they’d broadcast what was said around the world instantly.  Everyone, from the team’s supporters to their enemies to _his_ detractors, would hear him declare himself to be the next Captain America as soon as he said it.

_Holy shit._

Tony nodded as Sam went over to stand with the rest of the team.  He, too, was nervous.  He smiled good-naturedly, though.  “Gonna be a hell of a show.”

“You’re gonna rock it,” Peter said from his side, beaming at Bucky.  “You look kickass, by the way.”

Bucky winced.  “Uh… thanks?”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed.  He gave Bucky a quick appraisal.  “Very sharp.”

“Not quite you,” Wanda quietly said.  She gave a gentle smile, coming closer to give Steve a gentle hug.  “And not quite you, either.”

Steve smiled and embraced her.  “Not quite.”

“The combination will serve as an obvious indication of the new state of things,” Vision declared as if that wasn’t starkly obvious.  “New leadership.  A new era.”

“Yes,” Thor added.  He, too, looked Bucky over before nodding.  “Most definitely.  This is a wise decision, to tell the world outright of the changes coming.  With all of us together, people will see just how strong we are.”  He reached over and clasped Bucky firmly on his metal arm.  All of his earlier reservations and trepidations about Bucky taking over were gone, and for that Bucky was grateful.  If he could convince Thor and Tony and Rhodes and all of them of his worthiness, the general public should be a piece of cake.  Right?

Tony exhaled heavily and nodded.  “Are you ready?”

Bucky nodded, too.  “As I’ll ever be.”

Thor clapped him on the shoulder again with nearly enough force to topple him.  “Good.  Shall we?”

Natasha caught Bucky’s gaze and gave a smile.  “Sure.  Let’s do this.”  Then she, too, came over to give Steve a hug.  “We can always blame you if this doesn’t go right, can’t we?”

Steve chuckled.  “I disclaim all responsibility for him.  He’s your cross to bear now.”

Bucky was too addled to respond to the teasing.  He watched, more horrified than ever, as Tony came over.  Dodger looked a little perplexed at the suit of armor approaching his handler, and he planted himself pretty solidly at Steve’s side.  Tony himself was trying and failing more and more to keep up a calm façade.  “You really sure about this?” he asked, and he didn’t seem to care if Bucky heard him.  Frankly, Bucky didn’t care.  He wanted Steve to be sure.  He wanted as many people to ask him as possible.  He wanted this to be right.

Steve reached out a hand, finding the solid, smooth metal of Iron Man’s glossy shoulder.  “I’m sure, Tony.  Don’t worry.”

“Not possible,” Tony replied with a weak grin.

“Well, I won’t worry then,” Steve replied.  “With you two out there takin’ care of each other and protectin’ the world, everythin’s gonna be fine.  Because you love each other.  So you’ll both be fine.”

Tony rolled his eyes at Steve.  “Subtle,” he grumbled.  “Real subtle.”  Then he smiled at Bucky, shaking his head.

Steve gave him a shit-eating grin.  “Go deliver the news.”

“Aye-aye, Cap,” Tony returned, and then he was heading towards the press room.  The rest of the team followed him.  Bucky knew Fury was just inside, waiting like everyone else to get this show on the road.  It really was time.

So, taking a deep breath, he turned to go, too.  He made it about two steps closer before he realized Steve wasn’t with him.  He pivoted, regarding his husband with concerned eyes.  Steve just stood there, holding onto Dodger’s harness.  The sunglasses hid his eyes, which made it hard to read his expression.  That only added to Bucky’s already immense disquiet.  “Steve?”

Steve gave a tender smile.  “Think I’ll stay back here.”

Cold fear mixed with surprise washed over Bucky.  He went back to Steve’s side.  “Huh?”

Steve knew that he knew exactly what he’d said.  He sighed.  “Buck, you should do this without me.”

“No,” Bucky immediately argued.  “No, no.  C’mon, Steve, they’re gonna want to see you.  People still want you!”

“That’s the thing, though,” Steve replied calmly.  “They need to want _you_.”  That felt cold, too final and too daunting at the same time.  Steve hesitated just a second before stepping closer.  He brushed his free hand up Bucky’s chest, touching the star briefly, before reaching for his cheek.  “If I’m there, if I get up there and tell everyone that you should be Captain America, that I’m giving the shield to you, then you haven’t earned it.”

“I _haven’t_ earned it,” Bucky hissed.

“Don’t.”  Steve shook his head, gently pulling him closer.  “Don’t.  I already said what needed to be said about what happened to me.  I’m not who they need to see now.  You are.”

“Steve…”  Bucky’s voice dropped to a panicked whisper.  “Steve, please, I can’t do this without you.  I can’t get in front of them and say that I’m taking your place!  I can’t do that.”

“Yes,” Steve said again, just as firmly as before, “you can.  You can do anything, Buck.  I know that because I know you.  I know how hard you fight, how good you are, how strong you are.  And I believe in you.  Always have and always will.”  He gave a bit of a crooked smile.  “You said you’re leading for a while, right?  So lead.  We’ll follow, the world too.  We’ll all follow.”

Bucky stared at him a moment more, trying to breathe through the emotions bursting in his chest.  Fear.  Grief.  Excitement.  Worry.  So much _love._   Steve lifted his metal hand and kissed his fingers, brushing his lips over where his wedding ring was.  Then he leaned closer and took Bucky’s mouth softly.  Everyone was waiting, and the noise from the media room was increasing, and Bucky had to get out there and do this.

But they lingered, kissing deeply, lovingly, _fully_ until Bucky felt calmer and more capable.  He pulled away, cradling Steve’s face, running his thumb over Steve’s bottom lip before brushing his lips to Steve’s forehead.  “Watch me?”

Steve smiled.  “Always.”

Comforted, Bucky turned back to the press room.  The door was open, beckoning him.  He took one more deep breath and walked right through.

* * *

“I realize I might not be the best choice to take on this monumental responsibility.  God, I definitely realize that.  I never asked, never wanted, to be Captain America.  I never imagined this could happen.  But I want all of you to know that…  This isn’t just about wearing that uniform and carrying that shield.  It’s about…  It’s being a hero, not just to all of you but to my friends and my family.  To my husband, who built this symbol from the ground up with his strength, bravery, and determination.  And to myself.  It’s about showing myself that I _can_ be a hero.  After the things I’ve done, crimes that I can’t ever forget or forgive myself for committing…  I need to prove I’m good enough.  Steve believes I am, but that just means I have to work harder, be better, do the best I can because this is more than even deserving your faith and trust in me.  It’s deserving his, too, and I need to be worthy of that.  I need to be worthy of you and of this privilege.  I think I can be.  I’d like the chance to try to be.  And I’d like for you to know that I’ll be here, protecting the world, protecting our country, protecting my team and my husband.  I’ll be Captain America, and I’ll do this duty with all the honor–”

“Ugh, turn it off,” Bucky moaned, wincing at the footage from the press conference the television was loudly playing.  The sight of himself up at the podium, with the Avengers logo on its sleek front and the star on his chest and Steve’s shield on his back…  It made him downright embarrassed.  And listening to himself talk was even worse.  All that nonsense he’d spewed up there…  He couldn’t believe he’d actually said it, and hearing it played back was like rubbing his face in it.

“Why?” Tony said as he came over to stand at Bucky’s side behind the couch in the common area.  He had a bottle of beer from which he took a sizeable swig.  “Don’t like watching yourself kicking ass and taking names?”

The news report kept going, showing some more commentary from the anchor and correspondents after the conference.  They’d were cycling through some footage of him fighting alongside Steve from his first battle as an Avenger and then more images of him, everything from grainy pictures from World War II to shots of him as the Winter Soldier (the few that publicly existed) to coverage of the hearings in front of Congress to paparazzi pics of him and Steve as a couple.  It was moving so fast, a blur of his wild life, and even he felt dizzy watching it.  “Not sure that’s what I did,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“You did,” Wanda replied, turning to look at him where she was seated on the couch.  She smiled and reached back to touch Bucky’s metal hand where it was curled atop the plush back of the cushion.  “You really did.”

Vision appraised him as well with those inscrutable eyes of his.  He was wearing a black sweater and some khaki pants.  He was actually the most formally dressed of them.  After the conference, the team had changed out of their uniforms, donned some comfortable clothes, and retired to the common room for dinner.  Tony had ordered in a huge assortment of food, baked chicken and roast turkey and luscious steak, numerous types of pasta and salads and fresh bread, and they were all waiting anxiously for it to arrive.

Save for Vision, who was as cool as a cucumber as always.  “The press conference was a strong success, James,” he declared matter-of-factly, like Bucky didn’t know that, like Bucky wasn’t already _overwhelmed_ by that.  “You were wise to invoke the tone and phraseology that you did.  People are reacting very favorably.”

Bucky grimaced again.  “Good?”

“Very much so,” Vision said in firm agreement.  “Of course, there are some detractors.”

“There always are,” Sam added from the other couch where he was lounging next to Clint.  Clint was having a pre-dinner snack of potato chips, and Natasha looked like she wanted to yank the bag right out of his hands.  She rolled her eyes as he shoved them in his mouth.  Sam reached over and snatched a couple before leaning back more, crossing his leg at his knee.  “Haters still gonna hate.”

“Can’t believe you said that,” Natasha said, shaking her head.  She looked at Bucky.  “Don’t listen to anyone.  Eyes forward and chin up.”

“Yes,” Vision agreed.  “Those who are upset with the announcement are a vocal minority.  It cannot be said with certainty, but it seems likely any attempt they make to protest this will not be met with much support.”

“Not with the White House on our side,” Tony said.  He gave Bucky a little smile.  “Good thing Ellis is Steve’s number one fan.”  Then he seemed to realize what he was implying.  “Not that you don’t deserve his support!  Uh, I mean…  I was trying–”

Bucky smiled.  “I know what you were trying to say.”  And he did.  It went back to why Steve hadn’t wanted to be present when Tony, flanked by the Avengers and representatives from SHIELD, had announced who would become Captain America.  As embarrassing as all the attention was, what Bucky had nervously said up at that podium was true.  He had to earn the public’s support, whether or not Tony meant to tell him that.  “It’s alright.”

Tony nodded.  Then he turned to look behind him to where Steve was sitting at the dining room table, laughing as Thor and Peter talked.  They were right next to him, and Dodger was sitting right beside him, and Peter was petting the dog as he excitedly relayed some story from his high school.  Bruce was there, too, observing it all, and he caught Tony’s gaze and offered a nod.  “I feel good about everything,” Tony said after watching for a moment in a quieter tone.  “I really do.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asked.

Tony nodded.  “Yeah.  Considering how close we came to losing him…”  He took a deep breath, biting his lip a little as he stared at Steve.  There was a look of gratitude in his eyes that was deep and powerful.  “He’ll be okay.”

Bucky watched, too.  Rhodey came over and offered Steve a beer with a tap on his shoulder, and Steve took it, murmuring thanks in between chuckles.  He’d abandoned the brace for his cane (which had been black and practical until Tony had decorated it with racing flame decals), and his bad leg was stretched out in front of him.  He had a healthy flush to his face, and behind the sunglasses, Bucky could tell his smile reached his eyes.  “Yeah, I think so,” he said.

Tony seemed to believe that.  “And what about you?” he asked, taking another sip of his beer.  “You okay?”

A memory came to him, one from not that long ago, of being so taken aback because he’d been asked that.  Because the answer mattered.  Because he was worthy of being asked.  He was worthy of being Steve’s husband, of being Tony’s friend and Sam’s friend and Natasha’s friend.  He was worthy of being here, worthy of being an Avenger.  He was.  He knew that now.  Steve had shown him that.

He'd shown _himself_ that.

And his answer was the same.  “As long as he’s okay, so I am.”

Tony smiled.  They went back to watching the others, Clint and Sam fighting over the potato chips, Wanda and Vision cuddling together with him murmuring softly to her and her flipping through the channels, Natasha coming over to the table and setting her hands to Steve’s shoulders before dropping a sisterly kiss into his hair, Thor locking Peter’s head under his beefy arm and giving him a massive noogie, Bruce laughing at something Natasha said and Rhodey launching into some kind of tall tale about War Machine…  

They were all going to be okay.

Tony seemed to shake himself loose of his thoughts.  “You got some free time tomorrow?” he asked, raising his bottle to his lips anew.  “I have some new plans for the quinjet upgrades to go over.  Plus I’d like to try out the new EM retrieval system with your arm and shield.”

“Did you ask Steve about it?”

“I did,” Tony replied.  He cocked an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirked in a grin.  “He said I should ask you.”

Bucky didn’t know why he was so damn surprised, but he was.  He opened his mouth to object, but just then Friday announced that dinner had arrived, and there was a mad rush by Thor, Clint, and Peter to get the food from the delivery folks at the common room’s entrance.  Tony grinned and headed over to Steve, making some sort of comment about the awesomeness of the feast he ordered, and everyone started to come to the table.  Wanda and Vision retrieved plates and silverware.  Sam and Natasha got more drinks, more beer, some sodas and water, and a couple of bottles of wine.  Thor and Clint pushed the carts over and started loading the table with the trays and bowls.  Steve sat there as Tony ribbed him about how lazy he was, and he replied with how being an invalid had its perks with a cheeky grin, and, God, how could they have all come this far?

Pretty soon they were all gathered around the table.  Bowls and platters were being passed around.  Plates were being filled with filled.  For a little bit, there wasn’t much chatter as everyone began to eat.  Steve did too with hardly any trouble after Bucky filled him plate for him with what he wanted.  The moment felt a little tentative despite the good cheer that had dominated the complex all afternoon, like this couldn’t quite be real.  The same sort of eerie sense that if they accepted this as truth, it’d up and vanish on them.

But it was real and lasting.  They were here and whole, again changed but still so much the same.

When recognition of that fact seemed to silently and collectively sink in, the chatter started up again.  It wasn’t about the press conference or the revelation that Bucky was going to be Captain America.  It wasn’t about the storm of media attention, the pundits commenting and flood of tweets and the problems that surely laid ahead.  It wasn’t about the detractors, the doubters, the people who wouldn’t accept this no matter what they said or did.  It wasn’t even about the challenges they’d still face as a team, about the mistakes they’d certainly make or the disagreements they’d undoubtedly have.  None of that mattered now.

This was just a family having dinner together, grateful to have what they had.

The meal went on, filled with stories and jokes and laughter and smiles.  Everyone was enjoying the company and the delicious food, and the stresses of the day, the anxious lead-up to the press conference, melted away.  It was all too easy for Bucky to join in, for him to add his opinions, his comments, his thoughts.  He realized why, as the final bottle of wine made one last go around the table.  For the first time since Steve had brought him back to the complex, he felt truly relaxed with the others.  He felt like he belonged with them, that he was their equal, that the shadow of the Winter Soldier was no longer hanging over him and constantly haunting them all.  This experience, as difficult and harrowing as it had been, had bonded him to them and them to him in a way that probably nothing else could have managed.  It had made _him_ their family.

And Steve was…  Well, he was like how he’d been before all this in some ways.  Grinning and chatting and comfortable with his friends.  Contented.  _Happy_.  The energy in the room was focused around him, not in a blatant, forceful way but in a soft, comfortable one.  He was still the foundation of the team, even if he wasn’t going to be out there fighting with them anymore.  That much was – and always would be – obvious.  He was still its heart, still what made them work.  Even as he’d taken a back seat, he’d guided everyone during their training sessions in learning to work without him.  He was still to whom everyone looked for advice.  He was back to assuring everyone else that things were fine, even when he himself was scared or sad.  And that wasn’t a self-defensive or deflecting mechanism.  He truly believed in the team, in the people he loved.  This was his rightful place, and Bucky knew he could never (nor would he ever want to) take that from him.

After dinner was through, they worked together on clearing the dishes.  Steve refused to sit by idly and not help, so he was leaning against the counter, drying the dishes as Bucky washed them.  Sam was putting them away, and the rest of the team was bringing them in.  Even Tony was helping, and he stopped to pet Dodger where he sat at Steve’s legs.  That was something, considering Tony wasn’t an animal person at all.  He knelt in front of the dog, scratching his ears with both hands, and smiled.  “You’re a good boy, aren’t you.  Keeping him out of trouble.”  Dodger licked at Tony’s face; he was only a little more than a year old, a puppy still in temperament if not in size.  Tony wrinkled his nose.  “Good thing since his former handler now has a full-time reassignment.”

“Ha ha,” Steve said.  He flicked his wet hands at Tony and was accurate enough that Tony flinched and grumbled at the water in his face.  “That what happened to you when you gave Pepper Stark Industries to run?  You invented babysitters for yourself!  DUM-E and U and–”  Steve didn’t get to finish teasing him, because Tony was standing and yanking him closer and into his embrace.  Steve was surprised at first, but then he returned the hug, rubbing his back.  “Hey, Tony.  Tony, it’s fine.  I’m not goin’ anywhere, you know.  Just ’cause Buck’s out there doesn’t mean I’m not back here.”

Just that one statement summed up weeks of worry on Tony’s part.  Bucky knew it did, knew it probably tapped into how so many of the others felt, too.  Tony sniffled and pulled away, blinking hard and fast as if he was trying to hide tears.  “Yeah!  Yeah, I know.  I know.”  He grinned.  “It’s cool.  Long as you’re safe.”

“Tony…”

Tony patted Steve’s arm and then walked away, and Bucky watched, aching just a bit inside.  Maybe he should have asked Tony before if _he_ was okay.  He’d said he was okay with how things were, but that didn’t necessarily translate to feeling comfortable himself.  The fear and pain were getting the better of him.  It was going to be like this, Bucky knew.  Steps forward were met with steps backward sometimes.  Recovery wasn’t linear.  _Life_ wasn’t, either.  They’d all get there together.

After dinner, everyone went their separate ways.  Despite the fact that only a single event had occurred that day, it still felt like so much had gone on.  Bucky and Steve returned to their suite, Dodger leading the way.  They were silent, not uncomfortable about it but fatigued.  Bucky opened up their home and let Steve go in first.

And, of course, _of course,_ Nick Fury was there on their couch.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Bucky groaned, shocked and irritated.

“What?” Steve asked.  Dodger stopped right in front of him, regarding Fury warily.  Even the dog knew that man was trouble.  “Someone here?”

“Just me, Cap,” Fury said, standing from their sofa with a swish of leather.  He looked as confident and cool as ever, the same as he had earlier that day at the press conference.  Like everything was right as rain.  Like everything he’d wanted had come to fruition just as he planned it.  It wouldn’t surprise Bucky if that was exactly what had happened.

At any rate, the SHIELD Director came closer, side-eyeing Dodger just as suspiciously as Dodger was watching him.  He turned his eye to Bucky.  “Nice job today, Barnes,” he commented.  He hadn’t said as much before when the press conference had ended.

Bucky supposed it was better late than never, considering this was his first official action as Captain America.  “Thanks.”  He gave Fury an appraising look.  It was late, not so much so that it was unreasonable for someone to be making a house call (particularly Fury with his track record of impromptu visits) but far enough into the evening that one didn’t drop by for just idle chitchat.  “Obviously you want something.”

Fury nodded, clasping his hands in front of him.  “I do.”

Bucky wasn’t sure he wanted to know what.  “Okay.”

“But not from you.”  Fury tipped his head to Steve.  “From him.”

Steve had been quiet thus far, standing still and listening.  He startled a bit with that, wincing from beneath the sunglasses.  “Me?”

Fury nodded.  “Yeah.”  He walked even closer, staring at his former team leader.  “You mind giving us a few minutes?”

That was directed at Bucky, and, frankly, Bucky did mind.  If he’d learned anything these last few months, it was that Fury was a manipulative bastard (which he’d always known, but experiencing it firsthand had been unpleasant at best).  He wasn’t sure he wanted him getting at Steve on today of all days when emotions were still running pretty high. 

But Steve had his own ideas of what he could take like always.  “It’s fine, Bucky.  I don’t mind.”

Bucky shook his head.  “You sure?”

Steve didn’t budge.  “Yeah.”

Well, that tied Bucky’s hands.  If there was one thing he was learning about their new situation, it was that coddling or questioning Steve when he’d made his mind up about something was _still_ a sure way to get his ass in trouble with his husband.  So he glared warningly at Fury a moment (which Fury pointedly ignored) and headed deeper into their suite into their bedroom.

There was nothing to do in there but get ready for bed and wait, so that was what he did.  He took off his sneakers, jeans, and sweatshirt.  He went into the bathroom and did what he needed to, brushing his teeth and washing his hands and face and spending way too long staring at himself in the mirror again.  Then he plodded out to their bedroom.

Dodger was there on Steve’s side of the bed, his harness gone.  Obviously Steve had taken it off and sent him in.  Bucky didn’t know how to interpret that, other than whatever Fury wanted was probably more than a quick conversation.  He sighed, crossing the room to draw the blinds and hide the late autumn night.  Dodger watched him before dropping his chin to his paws and heaving a significant doggy sigh himself.  “Yeah,” Bucky grumbled, glancing out at the ridiculously dark night, “I don’t like it either.”

“Sergeant,” Friday called quietly, “would you like to watch television?  Perhaps I can show you more of the media coverage of today’s press conference.  It might comfort you to know public support is settling quite firmly on your side.”

That was a comfort but not right now.  “No.  Thanks, but I’ll…”  He turned back to Dodger and their bed.  “I’ll just wait.”

So he did.  He turned down their bed, nudging Dodger around until he could get the covers where he wanted them.  Then he settled on the mattress and rigidly laid in the utter silence.  Dodger came right up to him, laying between him and Steve’s side where he often slept during the night.  The idea that the dog wouldn’t sleep with them lasted all of one thought in Bucky’s head – he never even spoke to Steve about it before Steve was coaxing Dodger up into their bed with them.  It had taken a little getting used to for Bucky, but it was fine.  It made Steve feel good.

Right now it was making him feel good, too.  He petted Dodger’s head where the dog pillowed it on his thigh, and that calmed his anxiety some.  Dodger watched him with huge, brown eyes, and all Bucky could see in them was concern.  That was probably more of himself projecting.  “Don’t worry,” he said quietly on a low breath.  “It’s okay.”

_Still okay._

Thankfully this torture didn’t last too long.  A few minutes later, Steve came limping through the bedroom doors.  He was leaning heavily on his cane; at the end of the day, dealing with his bad leg usually had him exhausted, even with the brace to help him.  He had his white walking cane in his other hand, using that as he always did without Dodger to find his way around.  Bucky immediately sat up, and Dodger jumped down off the bed to go to him.  “Hey,” Bucky called.

“Hey,” Steve answered.  His voice sounded weird, off, and that made the alarm bells ring louder.  “You in bed?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, though he was itching to get out of it and run to Steve.  Steve nodded, leaning down clumsily so Dodger could lick his hands, and then limped toward his side of their bed.  His sunglasses lightly hit the bedside table.  Then he was heading to the bathroom, clearly not focused on what he was doing.  Bucky’s worry ramped up more, but he didn’t follow.

He did ask right away though when Steve came back, dressed in an undershirt and his pajama pants.  He wanted to give Steve space, but he couldn’t stand not knowing.  “What did he want?”

Steve set his cane to its place beside the bed.  Then he stood there, and his face was lax with shock and confusion.  “He asked me to be Commander of SHIELD.”

Bucky went lax and cold with shock and confusion, too.  “What?”

Steve swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.  He sat on the side of the bed, his back to Bucky as he rubbed at his hurting leg.  “He’s retiring, like we thought he might before all this happened.  He said, um…  I guess seeing me go down was kinda the last straw for him.  Guess it really got to him.”  _Could have fooled me,_ Bucky thought, but there was no heat to that despite everything Fury had done to push him into being Captain America.  He was too alarmed and surprised.  Steve’s voice got thicker with emotion.  “He’s been thinking about stepping down for a while, but watching that…  It was too hard.  So he’s leaving, and he wants me to take his place.”  Steve gave a rueful smile, looking over his shoulder at where he knew his husband was.  “He said it’d be an upgrade.  Said if a one-eyed spy could run SHIELD as well as he did, imagine what a totally blind soldier can do.”

“Jesus, Stevie…”  Steve didn’t say anything to that, and the room went quiet for a couple seconds.  He turned, lifting his legs into bed with a wince, and laid flatter, pulling the blankets up.  Dodger hopped up and laid at their feet, completely peaceful now that his owner was back and totally unaware of how precarious and exciting everything felt in this moment.  Bucky swallowed his heavily pulsing heart and looked over at his husband.  “What did you tell him?”

Steve sighed, his sightless eyes directed up at the ceiling.  “I told him I’d give him an answer after we try the procedure,” he said.  “It’s…  I don’t know.  It’s a lot to handle, and I’m not…”  He swallowed again and blinked.  Bucky could see the emotions creeping forward again.  “I’m not as capable as I was.”

“That’s bullshit,” Bucky said, careful to keep his voice free of anger.  “No one’s more capable than you.  You know better than anyone what SHIELD needs to be good and do good for this world.  You learned from SHIELD’s founder, for crying out loud.  You think Peggy would think twice about trusting you with what she built?”  Steve’s pained, uncertain expression softened.  Bucky reached over and turned Steve’s face toward him before smoothing the tense lines from Steve’s forehead and around his eyes.  “You told me that I can do anythin’.  You think that doesn’t apply to you?”

Steve kissed Bucky’s palm when it traveled close to his mouth.  He didn’t answer for a bit, breathing deeply, and Bucky watched the sea of emotions in those unfocused, depthless blue eyes.  “I know it does,” Steve finally said.  “I know.”

“So you can handle it,” Bucky said.  “I know you can.”  It took Steve another second to nod.  “Besides, I think it’d make everyone feel better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  Bucky rubbed his thumb across Steve’s lower lip.  “Like Tony today.  He’s okay with this, but he’s scared.  He wants you to have his back.  So do I.  So does everyone.  So havin’ you in command, keeping an eye on us–”

“I’d be doing that with or without the job, Buck,” Steve reminded with a wry smile.

Bucky smiled, too.  “Well, havin’ you do it officially and with authority then.”  He gave a little shrug, liking this idea more and more.  This kept Steve in the game, kept his smarts and wisdom and influence at the ready.  More than that, though, it gave him a new role that would be a comfort to everyone, to Fury in that SHIELD would be left in good hands, to the team that wasn’t ready to lose their leader, to the world that would still see Steve Rogers at the helm of their response team and leading a world security agency that had had more than a little egg on its face in the past.  To Bucky, who still wanted Steve’s support and guidance.  And to Steve himself, who needed to feel useful and empowered.  All those months ago, when Fury had told Bucky not to worry about what Steve would do if he became Captain America…  _You cunning bastard._  Bucky nodded.  “Yeah, I think you should do it.  I think they’d be lucky if you did.  I think you could do a phenomenal job, Stevie.  Phenomenal.”

Steve’s lips curled into a small smile.  Bucky could tell he was truly considering it.  “Yeah?”

“Definitely.”

They went quiet for a bit.  Steve let his eyes slip shut, and he kissed Bucky’s palm tenderly for a bit.  Then he stopped and sank more into the pillows and blankets.  Bucky put an arm around his midsection and draped his thigh possessively over Steve’s leg and relaxed completely.  “Bucky?”

“Hmm?”

It took Steve a moment more to get the courage up to say what he wanted to.  “I’m, uh…”  He licked his lips.  “I’m really scared.”

“Of running SHIELD?” Bucky teased, running the flat of his palm over Steve’s belly.  “Never known you to be scared of havin’ everyone doin’ stuff your way.”

Steve smiled.  “Not exactly.”  He sighed again, reaching down beneath the covers to take Bucky’s hand.  He ran his thumb over the back of Bucky’s fingers.  “I’m scared of next week.  The procedure.”

Bucky’s smile slipped a bit.  He wove his fingers around Steve’s.  “I know you are.”  This had been simmering in the background over the last couple weeks, as the date for Tony and the others to try their plan loomed closer and closer.  Steve was nothing but supportive and calm when he talked with Tony and Bruce about how everything would go, but Bucky could tell he was terrified.  So him admitting it now wasn’t a surprise.  Well, it wasn’t a surprise that he was frightened.  It was that he was actually revealing the truth.

Steve sighed before going on.  “I just don’t know if I can go through this again.  Getting excited and hopeful about somethin’ only to have it not come true.  Hurt so much before.”  He blinked and blinked, and all the emotion he’d barely restrained before when they’d been getting ready for the press conference seemed close to the surface.  “What if that happens again?”

Bucky couldn’t lie.  “It could,” he offered softly.  Steve shivered just a bit against him.  “But I don’t think it will.  I think it’s going to be fine.”

Steve stiffened just a little, like he so desperately wanted to believe that but just couldn’t.  “You really think so?”

“Yep.”

“How do you know?”

Bucky dragged his fingers lightly up his husband’s chest to brush his face again.  “I just do.  Just got a really good feelin’ about it.”  He smiled before kissing Steve deeply.  Maybe that was the sort of thing one typically said to shine someone else on, the sort of meaningless, placating drivel one spouted just to make a friend or loved one feel better.  Not this time, though.  This time Bucky really was confident.

This was going to work out, no matter what happened.

And his optimism did the trick.  Steve relaxed against him, kissing back with more fervor, probing into Bucky’s mouth with his tongue and leaning into him more.  Bucky got his arms around him, pulling as Steve rolled and scooted until Steve was pinning him with his weight, their mouths connected and hands wandering.

Steve pulled away and grinned.  “Sorry.  Didn’t mean to get all depressin’.”

“You could never be depressin’,” Bucky whispered.  Steve’s hair had grown a little longer these last couple months, and Bucky brushed it away from where his bangs dangled a bit by his eyes.  “And I never mind makin’ you feel better.”

Steve grunted fondly.  “Sap.”  His grin turned more devious.  “We should really be celebratin’.  You know, after today.  That was some good stuff you did.”

“Didn’t do much of anythin’,” Bucky groused, jerking his hips just a bit against Steve’s.

Steve’s mouth was teasing just above his.  “Sure, you did.  You told the world you’re Captain America.  I never had to do that, at least not so up front.  That took guts.”

When Bucky thought about it that way, yeah, it had taken guts.  He’d really put himself out there, taken a first step toward something uncertain and new but powerful and promising.  That made him warm, brimming with pride, and he grinned like a fool, only mostly glad Steve couldn’t see how embarrassed he was.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I guess it did.”

“Somethin’ like that deserves a reward,” Steve husked into his lips.  “Thought I might give you one.”

When Steve’s tongue plunged into his mouth, Bucky felt a good portion of his blood go south, and he rolled his hips up into Steve again.  Steve kept him down, getting more of his weight onto him.  Back six months ago, they could have truly had a contest of strengths.  Now Bucky was trapped only because he was allowing himself to be, and it reminded him so much of seventy years ago, of Steve Rogers smiling like a smug little shit as he straddled his hips and took control.  It was an incredible turn-on, then and now.

Though now Steve was tired, and Bucky knew it.  “You don’t have to,” he whispered, his body betraying his assertions.

“I want to,” Steve replied firmly, pushing him down into the bedding before kissing his way down his face, his throat, his chest.  Bucky swallowed thickly, arousal shooting through him, as Steve slunk lower, pushing Bucky’s t-shirt up and exploring with his mouth and fingers.  “’sides,” he said after a bit, after he’d started licking around Bucky’s navel.  He grinned again.  “Don’t need to see to be able to find my way into your pants.”

Bucky yowled a laugh at the awful joke, but that laugh was soon twisted up into a desperate moan as Steve slithered under the blankets and made his body sing.


	15. Chapter 15

In what felt like no time at all, the day of Steve’s procedure arrived.  For how much time had felt stretched long and monotonous before it, it came seemingly suddenly.  Bucky didn’t feel ready for it, and he knew Steve wasn’t.  Steve was extremely nervous and doing a poorer and poorer job of hiding it.  He wasn’t sleeping well, was restless, easily distracted, and overtly anxious.  He was bringing the subject up a lot, openly seeking consolation, which Steve _never_ did.  He was more rattled and out of sorts than Bucky could remember him ever being (even with his memories still all screwy at times, he was sure about that).  Therefore when they woke up to the morning after Shuri and T’Challa flew in, the morning that they needed to be down in medical for the surgery, Bucky was almost glad this torturous build-up was over.

Almost.  Despite all his bravado and claiming that he felt good about it (which he really did), he was scared, too.

Steve hadn’t slept much the night before again, and he was slow to get up and get started with the day.  That also was pretty strong evidence of how much he was dreading this, that he was dragging his feet so much.  Bucky was done with his shower and getting dressed by the time Steve finally got into the bathroom.  Worried about how lethargic and discombobulated he seemed, Bucky lingered while he showered.  He was sure Steve knew he was there, but Steve didn’t say anything as he got out and dried off, as he came to the vanity and brushed his hair and his teeth (with so much grace and control now), as he dressed and got ready.  Only when he was done and staring down at the sink instead of uselessly at his reflection in the bathroom mirror did he sigh and speak.  “I don’t want to do this.”

It was the same conversation they’d been having off and on since the press conference, like once Bucky had crossed that metaphorical hurdle, Steve had lost his bearings and had been adrift in this endless, repetitive sea of apprehension.  That was alright.  Bucky could guide him to shore.  “It’s going to be okay,” he said from where he was leaning against the wall by the door.

Steve didn’t move.  The same question came out.  “What if it doesn’t work?”

That reminded Bucky all too much of a moment very similar to this one, months ago when they’d been getting ready for Helen Cho’s experiment.  The one that had really begun dashing their hopes of recovery.  The one that had made it obvious just how much they’d already lost and couldn’t get back.  The funny thing was, though, that even with all hope of fixing the serum long dead, even with everything that had happened, the answer to that question hadn’t changed, not really, and it came easily enough.  “Then we’ll try something else.  We don’t give up.  If this doesn’t work, we just… accept that and move on and keep going.”

Steve raised cloudy eyes, staring now at the mirror.  Bucky could see him working through that, same as he had before over the last few days.  It was alright that they kept coming back to this.  He’d say the same things as many times as Steve needed or wanted him to.  He gave a smile, pushing himself off the wall and coming closer, reaching for Steve’s hand.  “But I really mean what I keep telling you.  I think…  I just have a good feeling about this.  I think it’ll work.  And you’ll be fine.”

Steve dipped his head, nodding.  Then he hauled in a deep breath.  “Thanks, Buck.”

“Don’t have to thank me.”

“Yeah, I do.  For a lot of things.”  Steve’s smile was soft and sweet.  “Not the least of which being the fact that you saved my life.  More than a few times, but this time especially.”  Bucky flushed with that, warm happiness and affection leaving him smiling like a loon.  “I don’t think I ever told you how… how _grateful_ I am to be alive.  How happy I am to have this, to be with you and still be able to hear you and touch you and _feel_ you.”  He shrugged self-deprecatingly.  “If you hadn’t made the choices you did when I was hurt, and if you hadn’t been there for me every step of the way after…”

“Stevie,” Bucky whispered, taking Steve’s face between his hands and kissing him gently.  There weren’t words to say what he wanted to say, how much he loved Steve, how much Steve deserved this and every other moment in their lives where he’d taken care of him.  Where they’d taken care of each other.  “You saved me too, you know.”  _More than you’ll ever know._

They leaned into one another for a bit before reluctantly untangling themselves and heading out into their bedroom.  Dodger was there on their undressed bed, and he hopped down and came closer, wagging his tail, as Steve limped over using his cane.  Gingerly he sat on the edge of the bed, and Bucky helped him get his brace on.  He could manage that himself, but it was easier and faster with help.  All the while, he was petting the dog, and Bucky could sense the nervousness returning.  “You probably oughta stay here,” Steve murmured, burying his face just a bit into Dodger’s neck and shoulder while he hugged him close.  “Hospital’s no place for a pup.”  He sighed shakily.  “You’ll make sure he gets out, right, Buck?”

“Of course,” Bucky said.  He got Steve’s shoes on and then his own.  “Ready?”

Steve didn’t look ready.  He sat a moment more, clinging on Dodger, trapped in his own trepidation, before finding that courage for which he was known.  He gave Dodger one last snuggle before getting to his feet.  The brace did its job right away, making his bad leg bend and function better, and he took a couple easier, normal steps.  Bucky followed him, and together they walked out of their suite.

Being in the medical ward didn’t feel good, especially after all the hell of the last six months.  Tony met them when they arrived.  He was a ball of nerves; of course he would be, considering he was principally involved in just about every aspect of this plan.  But Steve couldn’t see that, and Tony was a decent actor.  “Hey,” he greeted, smiling as the two of them approached.  “How you doing?  You ready?”

Steve offered a weak smile.  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he managed. 

“Gee.  Don’t get so excited,” Tony chided jokingly, but he met Bucky’s gaze with worry.

Steve’s smile slipped some.  “I can’t explain it.  Just…”

“I get it.  You’re used to this.  At peace with it, right?  Don’t want to reopen a wound.”  That was putting it succinctly.  Sometimes it was downright shocking just how perceptive Tony could be when he wasn’t all lost up in his own eccentricities and obsessions.  Tony carefully took Steve’s arm and led him deeper into the medical ward.  “If it’s any consolation, we can’t _really_ fix your sight, so get all hope of that right out of your head now.  We’re awesome but not that awesome.”

That was said facetiously, but Bucky knew it was true and a reminder of the limits of what they were attempting.  This time Steve’s grin was more genuine.  “I know, Tony,” he said, a bit long-suffering in his tone.  “I was listening the dozen or so other times we talked.”

“I figured you were,” Tony said, getting bolder and putting his arm around Steve’s shoulders.  “You know, you being you and all that.  I just wanted to be sure.  Establish realistic expectations.”

“I have no expectations.”

Tony huffed as they entered the private areas attached to the labs.  “I’m gonna choose not to be insulted by that.  Here we are!”  They walked inside one of the hospital rooms adjoining the surgical suite, and Bucky was only marginally surprised to see basically _everyone_ there.  Sam and Natasha and Clint.  Thor and Bruce.  Peter Parker and Wanda and Vision.  T’Challa and Shuri.  The second Steve came in, they were all on him, coming toward him with happy greetings.  They utterly enveloped him, not just physically with hugs and pats on his back and arms around him, but with smiles and jokes and encouragement and good cheer.  With love.  It was incredible, and Bucky hung back, let them take Steve, let them comfort him and distract him and ease the nervousness.  Natasha with her cool comfort and knowing touches.  Clint with his wry, pragmatic humor.  Sam with his sunny smiles and easy certainty.  Thor with his big hugs and booming voice.  Bruce with science and understanding and Peter with youthful exuberance and Wanda with quiet steadfastness and Vision with logic and objectivity.  These were their friends.  This was their _family_ , and they were there to support him.

T’Challa came over to Bucky just outside the room as the group kept Steve’s attention, Sam and Clint ribbing him about his ass hanging out of his hospital gown as he walked with Natasha’s help into the ensuite bathroom to change.  “I feel confident this will go as planned,” the king commented as he stood at Bucky’s left, his hands clasped behind him.

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, watching as the others hung around and chatted and kept the mood light and hopeful.  The morning sun was streaming in through the room’s windows, which of course made everything seem even brighter.  “Me too.”

“People seem generally supportive of your appointment,” T’Challa quietly commented.  “It seems I was right to think you were a good choice to take his place.”

“Thanks, I guess, even though I haven’t done anything yet,” Bucky said, uncomfortable with the undeserved praise.

“You will,” T’Challa declared with certainty.  “And you will do it well.  You fight with love in your heart, beholding to a legacy that you must honor.  I understand what that means.”  Surely he did, just as he’d hinted before when he’d told Bucky that the mantle of hero was best passed from family to family.  T’Challa’s sharp eyes narrowed in appraisal.  “There’s truly been a great change in you since you first came to my people, broken and abused and lost.  You are no longer any of those things.”  His eyes were knowing and a tad teasing.  “And you no longer seem scared out of your head.”

Bucky grunted a little chuckle.  “No, I suppose not.  Kinda feel like if I can get through everything I’ve been through in my life, bein’ scared all the time’s just kinda… dumb.”

“Emotions are not known for their intelligence.”

“Not really.”

“Yet we are often bound by them all the same.  I see it in him now, this apprehension he’s trying to hide.  Shuri’s projections indicate this procedure will be successful.”

“He knows,” Bucky replied.  Steve was emerging from the bathroom in only the hospital gown, and everyone joked and teased anew to his utter mortification.  Natasha and Sam were helping him to the hospital bed, which Wanda had already turned down for him.  They’d taken his brace off, and without his cane he was limping rather heavily and leaning on Sam, but no one said a thing.  They got him into the bed, and Bruce was already setting up the monitors and quietly beginning to explain what was going to happen.  Bucky sighed.  “Tony’s told him.  Bruce has told him.  I’ve told him.  I think everyone has.  It’s just one of those things.  He can’t bear to hope.”

“Then we shall hope for him,” T’Challa said resolutely, “and stand by him, whenever he needs it.”  The king turned to Bucky more directly.  “And my oath that I, correctly it seems, made to you months ago is still true.  The Black Panther, no, all of Wakanda, stands with the Avengers.  You need only call upon us.”  He donned something of a devious smirk.  “Captain.”

By the time Bucky had really processed what the other man had said, T’Challa was strolling toward the bed to talk to Steve, leaving him flabbergasted in his wake.  Bucky’s eyes must have been wide, his jaw on the floor probably, because Sam gave him a knowing smirk when he got himself under control enough to actually look around the room again.  Sam’s grin was enough to snap him out of his shock, and then he couldn’t help the proud smile crawling onto his face.  _Captain._   Someone had actually called him that.  Holy hell.

The next couple hours flew by.  It didn’t take Shuri and Bruce long at all to get things ready, but with the team there distracting Steve and filling what could have been a painfully vacuous wait, it seemed like things were moving very quickly.  Before Bucky even realized what was happening, everyone was ready and they were just about to wheel Steve into surgery.

Then it hit.  Steve was having neurosurgery to implant a computer into his brain that would help him see again.  That was huge and terrifying, exciting and overwhelming, and this brave front of calm acceptance Bucky had worn all these days crumbled.  Shuri had arrived, and she was telling Steve more detail, that the procedure should last six hours or so, depending on how well things went.  She was telling him he’d be conscious for part of it, but he wouldn’t feel any pain or remember any of the experience when it was done.  She promised that, promised him he had nothing to worry about, that she had everything in hand.  Bucky believed that, but it didn’t stop the fear.

It didn’t stop Steve’s, either.  His eyes were roving frantically as the medical staff prepared to wheel him into surgery, as the team gathered and gave him hugs and kisses and praise and encouragement.  Final blessings and wishes for good luck followed by quick, dismissive assertions that luck wasn’t necessary.  When they were all through and backing away, Shuri and the medical team waited for Bucky to come up to the gurney where Steve was laying.

Steve seemed to know he was there right away, even though he was a little loopy with the sedative he’d been given in preparation for anesthesia.  His roaming eyes settled, and he relaxed.  He reached for Bucky, and Bucky smiled, relaxing himself, and took Steve’s hand in his own.  “Hey, doll,” he whispered.  He brushed a hand across Steve’s forehead, stroking the hair off his brow.  “You okay?”

Steve took a deep breath, held it a moment, and then exhaled.  “Yeah,” he answered.  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  Steve nodded.  His lips pulled into a knowing smile.  “I’m ready.”

Bucky smiled, too.  “Yeah, you are.”

Steve tugged Bucky to him, and Bucky went, despite the fact that everyone was around them and watching them and waiting.  “It’s going to be fine,” he promised again, leaning over Steve’s chest and caressing his face more tenderly.  “It really will be.”

“I know.”  Steve said that calmly, and it was obvious now that he did.  Of course, the anxiety and worry and trepidation was still there; that wasn’t going to be completely assuaged until this was over.  But it was better, and Bucky could see that.  Steve smiled, reaching up to brush Bucky’s hair back.  “I just wanted you close.”

Bucky’s heart felt full to the point of bursting in his chest.  “Yeah?”

“Wanted to hear you breathe,” Steve said quietly.  “Wanted to hear your voice.”

“Is that so?” Bucky teased lightly, his own eyes burning with tears.

“Yeah.”  Steve’s smile got bigger.  “It’s the sweetest sound, Buck.”  He fingers ghosted over Bucky’s mouth.  “The sweetest sound.”

Bucky swallowed down his joy, the lump in his throat tight to the point of paining him.  He cleared his throat a bit to sound somewhat normal.  “What do you want me to say?”

“That you love me,” Steve answered simply, “and that you’ll be here when I wake up.”

Bucky leaned down and captured Steve’s mouth in a deep kiss.  “I do,” he murmured when he pulled away, “and I will be.”

With that, they took Steve to surgery.  Bucky watched, Shuri catching his eyes and saying yet again that everything would be fine.  Then she was gone, and they were all left to wait.

Waiting, as it turned out, wasn’t much more pleasant this time than it had been the last few times Steve had had an operation.  The procedure was complicated, experimental, and lengthy, so patience was essential.  Patience and composure.  Even knowing the risks and dangers were far, _far_ less now than they’d been when Steve had been so badly hurt, it was hard to find either of those things.  Bucky paced the waiting room in the medical ward over and over again.  When he got tired of that, he sat for a bit and watched the television on the far wall (though he kept that away from the news coverage) and tried not to think.  When he got tired of that, too, he went to the windows and watched the day escaping.  There was activity out in the hospital area, and the rest of the team coming and going.  They were constantly doing that, settling down in the waiting room for a bit to keep Bucky company or showing up for an update before heading out again to keep themselves busy.  Sam, Natasha, and Tony were the ones who were the mostly commonly present.  Sam in particular was at Bucky’s side often.  It was nice to have him back, not quite the same as he had been before Steve had been hurt, but more of who he was, not angry and exhausted but composed and comforting.  He was usually quiet when he sat with Bucky, but at times he made conversation to ease the anxiety.  _“How about those Giants?”_ or _“Did you get back to let Dodger out?”_ or _“I was thinking we should have a team night when this is all done, you know, dinner and games or something”_ or _“would you be willing to come speak at the VA?  It’d be a Captain America thing to do.”_

Bucky didn’t want to think about being Captain America right now.

Still, he was appreciative of Sam staying close, of Natasha’s quiet, comforting glances.  Of Tony relaying information from the operating room where Friday was assisting Shuri, Bruce, and the rest of the neurosurgeons and doctors.  He was busy running simulations on his end of this wild endeavor, testing the glasses he’d designed with Shuri’s and Peter’s input.  Clearly he was excited about it, _very_ excited about it, because he talked the ear off of anyone silly enough to show even the slightest amount of interest.  He was nervous, too, because he knew so much of the success of their plan really rode on his shoulders.  After everything, the pain and guilt he suffered because of his ideas (irrationally so – Bucky believed in that whole-heartedly now), he really wanted – _needed_ – this to work.  More than once he looked to Bucky, and Bucky always managed to stow his own apprehension and anxiety to offer him a nod or a small smile.  Him, _smiling_ at Tony Stark to show his trust and respect and faith, and Tony Stark smiling right back.  As terrible as so much of this had been, some good had certainly come of it.

The hours dragged on.  Thor and Clint came with lunch, a few boxes of pizza and a bunch of sodas and waters.  The team ate in companionable silence.  There wasn’t much need for conversation.  Affirmation and comfort were found in glances, in the unspoken bonds between them that had been forged in fire and pain.  And after that, more people came and went.  Sam left at some point and Wanda took his place, her calm presence easing Bucky into the afternoon.  Natasha willingly sacrificed herself to Tony’s babbling; it made him happy and kept him occupied and allowed him to prove to her (and himself) that he knew exactly what he was doing.  Peter came.  Vision came.  Thor left and then returned with T’Challa, and they softly commiserated on the burdens and responsibilities of their respective royal lineages.  Clint sat there and tapped a beat on his knee for what felt like hours.  Throughout the day, everyone was there at one point or another, and that made the wait so much more tolerable.

That and the fact this was different than before.  Natasha told him that as the afternoon wore away.  He could see she was a little tired.  The latest reports from Shuri and the team indicated things were going well, a tad behind schedule but not enough to be a concern, and that the conclusion of the procedure was approaching.  Still, the long hours were wearing on even her.  She was calm, however, as she joined Bucky in watching the autumn sun turn the complex’s yard red.  “I always hated the sunset back in Russia.”  Bucky turned to her but said nothing to that.  He wasn’t certain he needed to.  After a moment, she continued with a slight sigh.  “There’s the obvious connotation, I guess.  When it looks like this.”

He set his gaze back out the window, seeing said blatant tones in the way the ruddy hues of the dying day made the grass look like it was awash in blood.  The light shining through the red and orange canopies of the trees increased the effect so it was even more startling.  It didn’t seem so meaningful to him, so reminiscent of his dark days spent as the Winter Soldier.  But, then, he hadn’t been burdened with clear memories at the time.  He hadn’t been forced into training as a child and brainwashed into _believing_ his crimes were for the good of his country.  He’d had no conscience, no choice, no capacity to think for himself.  So there’d never been a chance for him to stand and watch the sun go down and spill blood over the world after he’d spilled blood all over his hands and ruminate on the fitting symbolism.

“But it was more than that,” Natasha continued after a moment.  “It was… this sense of defeat, I guess.  Of endlessness.  The day _was_ ending, and whatever awful things I’d done ending with it, but it didn’t matter, because the sun would set and tomorrow would come and it’d just be the same.  Another mission.  Another mark.  More secrets to steal and lies to tell and… people to kill.  Lives to destroy.  It just kept going, over and over again, and there was no way out.”  She sighed again, longer and deeper this time.  “Steve showed me that, the way out.”

“I know he did,” Bucky said.  “He did for me, too.”

“He broke the cycle.  For the first time in my life, I felt like I really had a future.  More than as a spy or even a SHIELD agent.  I could be a hero.”  Bucky bit the inside of his cheek and nodded.  “And when he fell that day…”  Her voice shook and she stopped.

“This isn’t going to be like that.”  Bucky put his arm around her.  “It’s not.  He’s going to be fine.”

“Damn it,” she said around an embarrassed sob.  “God, I know that!  Just…  God, he’s a pain in the ass for putting us through all this.”

Bucky chuckled as he pulled her closer into a hug.  “I know.  Been tellin’ him that since I pulled his scrawny ass out of back alley fight when he was five.”

Natasha laughed a bit as well.  The moment of weakness was short-lived, and her normal façade of cool composure was back.  She smiled at Bucky.  “I’m glad you’re going to run things, James.  I don’t think I’ve said that until now, but it’s true.  I’m glad.  I’m glad you and Stark made your peace, too.  And I’m glad things worked out the way they have, for you and for Steve.”

It took Bucky a moment to realize what she was talking about.  Then he sighed, shaking his head.  “I take it Fury spoke to you about his grand plan.”  He didn’t know why he was ever surprised.

Natasha gave him a coy smile.  “Who do you think turned him onto the idea?”  _Of course._   “When you mentioned that day all the way back that he wanted you to take Steve’s spot…  It was only natural to think about having Steve take his.  I knew Nick wanted out, and I knew he’d never go without knowing SHIELD’s future is secure, and I knew he was too damn proud and secretive to ever _ask_ anyone to replace him, and I knew Steve was the obvious choice, _and_ I knew you’d never become Captain America without Steve having a role of his own…”

“You sly busybody,” Bucky muttered with an affectionate grin.  Natasha grinned too, so proud and devious, and Bucky could hardly believe it.  “Are you always pulling Fury’s strings?”

“Maybe.”  That was facetious, Bucky knew, but cryptic enough, and he couldn’t help but be amazed and wonder just how often Natasha really was making the world better behind the scenes, arranging circumstances and people silently and masterfully so that the right things happened.  She nudged him with her hip.  “So tell that husband of yours to take the job offer, huh?  He better not make a liar out of me.”

“Bucky?”

Bucky and Natasha turned to find Bruce standing at the waiting room’s entrance.  Tony immediately sprung from his seat.  Thor and Clint stopped quietly bickering about the finer merits of sci-fi/fantasy as a genre and stood too.  Bruce flushed a bit with all the attention and then smiled.  “It’s finished.  Everything went really well.”

Bucky nerves went wild with a rush of relief, excitement, and worry all mixed together.  “Can I see him?”

Bruce nodded.  “Sure.  I’ll take you back.”

Stumbling over himself to get moving after so many hours spent still, Bucky charged out of the waiting room.  Bruce was talking as they went back into the medical ward, explaining more about the surgery, but Bucky couldn’t focus on it.  He could only walk, frantic and not afraid to show it, all this anxiety that he’d barely kept at bay for days, for _weeks_ , surging right to the surface, and it wasn’t going to be quiet now, not until he saw Steve and touched him and knew he was alright.

He was alright.  Bucky found him unconscious in a hospital bed, surrounded by monitors tracking his vital signs.  He looked very healthy, with good color to his face, and if he’d ever been intubated in the surgery, it wasn’t obvious.  His eyes were closed but not so tightly or so ringed in sickness as they had been when he’d been injured, and his face was free of pain.  His hands were gathered on his belly, which was rising and falling with slow, even breaths.  He looked wonderful, and were it not for the IV in his hand, you wouldn’t have been able to tell anything serious had happened to him.

Shuri was there at Steve’s bedside, and when Bucky burst into the room, she turned to give him a smile.  “Things have gone perfectly,” she announced.

Bucky was shocked.  “You didn’t need to cut his hair?”

That was probably a stupid thing to say, but, hell, he’d expected Steve’s head to be shaved again and bandaged.  Steve’s blond locks were thick on his forehead, mussed but as long as they had been that morning.  Shuri laughed, but it was kindly.  “No,” she commented.  “The entire procedure was laparoscopic.  With nanotechnology, we were able to place the implants as well as their connecting circuitry with minimal incisions.  He will have a very quick recovery.”

“Wow,” Bucky breathed.  “So he’s just–”

“Sleeping, which is likely what he will do for a while yet.  That’s a good thing, not only for his body to rest but to allow the implants to settle, if you will, into his neural pathways and visual cortex.”

Bucky was utterly stupefied.  He came closer, staring at Steve’s unshaven, _unblemished_ face, at his temples where he _knew_ they’d inserted these implants.  There was not a sign of them, no bruising or cuts or indication of something beneath the skin.  “But they’re there?”

“Oh, yes,” Shuri said, and she moved her wrist over to rest a few inches above Steve’s head.  Her _kimoyo_ beads came to life instantly, projecting a hologram in white and blue that showed a glittering, complicated network of connections.  It was almost like a spiderweb, so intricate and complex that it was awe-inspiring.  “The implants are already interfacing with the trillions of connections between the neurons of his occipital cortex.  They are mapping and replacing damaged synapses with synthetic pathways.”  She grinned, like she was stunned by how well her own technology was performing.  “I could not have asked for better results.”

“So it’s working,” Bucky said, unable to mask the hope in his tone.

Shuri’s grin softened as she turned the _kimoyo_ beads off.  “We’ll know more when he wakes up.  I’ll be back in a bit to check on him.”  She patted Bucky’s metal arm tenderly, the one she’d designed and given him, and headed out of the room.

Bucky turned back to Steve, still anxious but not because he was afraid.  He took the chair from the side of the room and brought it to the bed.  Then he sat in it and continued to wait.

Once more, the other Avengers came and went.  Bucky didn’t focus too much on them as they anxiously checked on him and Steve.  They offered to stay for a while, to maintain Bucky’s vigil so he could leave and eat or rest, but he politely refused.  He kept his attention on his husband, on the monitors tracking his pulse and respiration rates, on the seconds of the afternoon slowly slipping into the evening.  It could have brought up terrible memories of the last time he’d sat at Steve’s side, waiting for him to wake up, the dread and dismay creeping in his heart and building and building with each thing that went wrong…  Waiting for Steve to wake up only to find he was blind.

_Not this time._

“Stevie?” he called, taking Steve’s hand on his own.  Steve didn’t wake at his quiet voice.  He was breathing deeply, his face remaining lax and peaceful.  Bucky rubbed his thumb over Steve’s wedding ring, lowering his chin to his chest and smiling.  “Still gotta do everything on your terms, huh.”  This was just like before, like right before everything changed, but this time…  _It’s okay_.  He knew it was.  “Shuri says it worked.  It’s working.  And you know what?  You’ll be just fine.  You’ll be fine, sweetheart.  You’re gonna get wake up, open those baby blue eyes, darlin’, and then everything will be right.  I can just feel it.  Everythin’s gonna be right as rain.  You hear me?”  Bucky lifted his hand to his lips and kissed it.  “I’m right here, and I’m waitin’.  I’m waitin’ right here.”

_I love you._

The next morning, Bucky woke to the sun streaming in through the hospital room’s windows.  He’d apparently spent the night in the chair beside Steve’s bed, and the second he moved, a plethora of stiff twinges ran across his muscles.  He grunted, wincing, pushing away a blanket he couldn’t recall ever putting on himself.

“Buck?”

Focusing, Bucky found Steve staring at him from the hospital bed.  For a second, he almost believed Steve could see him, that his beautiful eyes were focusing on him.  But then his brain kicked into gear, and he knew that couldn’t be.  Not yet.  “Hey, doll,” he greeted, donning a smile even if Steve couldn’t see him.  “How you feelin’?”

Steve obviously hadn’t been awake very long.  He planted his hands onto the mattress of the hospital bed and pushed himself up a little.  Bucky reached over to help him, but he didn’t need it.  “Good.  I feel good.”

“Not dizzy at all?”  Shuri and Bruce had warned them that could be a side-effect of the procedure.  “No pain?”

Steve shrugged.  “Little headache,” he admitted.  “It’s not bad.”  He closed his eyes, feeling along his temples and them his skull, obviously probing and searching.  “Did they…  Did it work?”

Bucky could hardly stand to think about that himself.  He’d been up a long time the night before, worrying and contemplating and hoping and praying.  Frankly he was shocked he’d even managed to fall asleep.  “I’ll call Tony and Bruce and Shuri,” he said.  “Do you want to get cleaned up first?”

It was obvious Steve was too anxious to focus on that, but he nodded all the same.  Bucky helped him out of bed.  He was stiff, his bad leg not working well at all as he leaned heavily on Bucky and limped to the bathroom.  Bucky watched him very carefully, monitoring for signs of vertigo, pain, or anything else unusual.  He seemed utterly fine.  It took him aback all over again that he couldn’t even tell where the implants were, so remarkable and uncanny that it made it all seem just a bit unreal.  Steve was out of sorts enough to let Bucky help him quite a bit in the bathroom.  Bucky bundled him into the shower, waited until he was steady before leaving him to wash himself, and grabbed the clean clothes someone had kindly brought down for them both.  He changed, too, opting to just freshen up with the sink.  When they were both ready, teeth and hair brushed and clothes on and Steve’s brace in place, they headed back out into the room.

Tony and Shuri were there.  So were Sam and Bruce, though they hung back a bit as Tony came forward.  “Steve?  Everything alright?”

“Tony,” Steve said with a weak smile.  He looked about ready to crack at any moment, so fragile and frightened and shivering with hope.  “Tony, did it work?”

Tony took Steve’s arm and led him back over to the hospital room’s spacious seating area.  He’d brought a couple of tablet computers and laptops, as well as a plastic case that was open on the table.   The computers were already on, displaying information which Bucky couldn’t make any sense of.  Tony had Steve sit.  Then he knelt in front of him, taking his hands.  “I have the glasses,” he said, staring at his friend’s face.  Steve smiled broadly, but it was so tremulous.  “We’re going to put them on you now.  If you want, I mean.”

“The second we do, the implants will begin to forge stronger connections with your visual cortex,” Bruce supplied from where he worked with one of the laptops.  “The stimulation is key.  That’s what’s going to help the implants and your brain tissue work in synchrony.”

“But what you need to understand is you might not see anything right away,” Tony said.  “I know you’re worried about it not working.  I know.  I’m not going to fake it now, okay?  All of us are nervous.  The fact is this has never been tried before.”

“No data to go on,” offered Sam.  He looked tense.

Tony nodded.  “Right.  And, all joking aside about how awesome I am, I can’t guarantee this is going to pan out right away.  It may take some time to adjust stuff, fine tune things, and so on, so if everything’s still dark and blurry at first, don’t panic and don’t get discouraged.”

Steve was struggling with the mere possibility.  Bucky could see that.  “That doesn’t sound like me,” he finally said after a lengthy pause filled with worry on all their parts.  “Panickin’ and gettin’ discouraged.”

Tony smiled.  “No.  We’ll take this one step at a time.”

Shuri added, “Patience is key.  The system is self-calibrating, and we can adjust the signal externally until it seems right to you.  In addition, though I believe I was fairly accurate in connecting the implant’s conductors to the correct brain regions, I can’t be absolutely sure of that.  The visual system is highly complex, particularly in its integration with other senses and the memory areas of the brain.”

“Meaning what exactly?” Sam asked.

“Things may be incorrect.  Shapes.  Basic object recognition.”  She gave a small shrug.  “It might even be possible that a visual stimulus could excite nerves not related to visual processing, though I think that’s rather unlikely.  Still, given the number of months between your injury and now, your brain might have begun to rewire itself to contend with your injury.  It’s not uncommon after the loss of a sense.”

“So a sound could become a sight?” Bucky asked.

“In theory,” Shuri replied.  “Perhaps seeing an object will invoke the experience of a taste, or seeing someone’s face could cause you to hear his or her voice.  Like I said, I doubt that will happen, but this is extremely experimental.  We will try to correct problems as we can.  The nanosystem creating the implants’ connections is adaptive.”

“Okay,” Steve said.  It was obvious he was overwhelmed by the information.  He gave a big sigh, sitting stiffly in the chair.  “I understand.”

Tony glanced at Bucky, and at Bucky’s nod he smiled, probably relieved they were still going forward.  And of course they should; they’d come this far.  But Bucky’s heart was pounding again as Tony opened that plastic case.  Resting on a bed of gray foam was a pair of glasses.  They were black, very sleek looking, very modern, very Tony Stark in their design.  The frame was thicker but not clunky, and the lenses were also more substantial.  They curved around the temples more, likely to provide better peripheral vision.  Carefully Tony picked them up, and he touched a tiny, silver spot on the right temple of frame.  A faint whisper of light raced over the lenses, and then they dimmed black.  “Clear or not,” he said, mostly for the benefit of Bucky and Sam, who were both watching nervously.  “So he doesn’t have to decide if he wants sunglasses.”  He grinned and tried a joke.  “You know, to keep us from seeing how much he disapproves of our choices.”

“Of your choices,” Sam weakly chided.  “Nice.”  It was a cool feature, if not a little incidental.

Tony tapped a spot on one of the nearby tablet computers, and it came to life.  Suddenly the displays were filled with weird, chaotic images, and it took Bucky a moment to realize he was looking at Tony’s face as he held the glasses up.  He was looking at what the glasses were seeing.  It wasn’t a direct recording; it was infrared and motion, other electromagnetic signatures, strange colors and patterns that were a little dizzying to behold.  But that was what Tony, Shuri, and Peter had claimed it would be, not “normal” vision, per se, but something Steve’s brain could learn to interpret.  Something they could build upon.

“Wow,” Sam breathed.  “Is that what he’ll see?”

“In theory,” Tony responded.  “But let’s just… see how this goes.  You ready, Steve?”

Bucky could see Steve swallow, see him steeling himself.  Everyone was watching him, watching the emotions play very clearly across his face.  Fear and worry again.  Excitement.  Appreciation.  So much hope.  “Yeah,” he finally said.  “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Tony took a deep breath and slid the glasses on his face.

And Steve immediately gasped.  Bucky saw the pain, watched it come slashing across Steve’s expression, watched his body go tense.  A stampede of horrible thoughts trampled him, memories of the serum hurting him, of seizures and arrhythmia and respiratory arrest, and he rushed over to yank the glasses off his face.  So did Sam, and Tony was grabbing for them himself, shouting for Bruce to kill the input feed.

“No!  No!” Steve cried out, his voice twisted.  He stood, getting away from them so that they couldn’t touch him.

“Easy, Steve,” Sam gasped, trying to get to him.  He reached, but Steve dodged his arm and limped away.

Steve _dodged_ him.

The room went silent save for pounding hearts and rushed breathing.  The monitors were displaying a crazy, colorful image of Sam’s face, colored shades of red, orange, green, and blue.  Then it shifted wildly, because Steve was looking around, jerking his head almost frantically, and his lips curled upward into an absolutely gigantic smile.  “Oh, my God,” he whispered, panting, shaking, _beaming._   “Oh, my God!”

Tony glanced worriedly at Bruce, who still looked ready to shut the whole thing down, before taking a hesitant step forward.  “Steve…  Are you okay?”

“Oh, God.  Holy hell,” Steve murmured.  As steady as he seemed for a moment, in a blink that changed, and he was nearly toppling.

Bucky broke from his stasis, charging over to take Steve’s arms and steady him.  “Steve.  Steve!”  Steve’s eyes were roving wildly, like he couldn’t get his bearings.  Bucky realized why.  He couldn’t.  He was _seeing_ the world, but his eyes weren’t controlling the perception; the glasses and therefore the position of his _head_ was.  That had to be incredibly dizzying and disorienting.  Maybe this actually wasn’t that good of an idea.  Steve looked green about the gills, seriously nauseous, and he was trembling like a leaf in a gale.  Bucky held him firmer.  “Steve, you need to sit.  Sit!”

It was clumsy, but Bucky got him back into the chair.  Steve groaned as he sat.  Tony came over and reached for the glasses again, but Steve batted him away lightly.  “Easy, Captain,” Shuri warned.  “Your brain and body need time to adjust.  Obviously the system is delivering impulses to your sensory cortex.”  She was a tad breathless and excited.

“It definitely is,” Bruce agreed, examining the flow of data across the computers and monitors.  “Better than expected.”  His smile was triumphant as he looked at Tony.

Tony was more concerned with Steve.  “Take a breath,” he said quietly, rubbing Steve’s good leg gently.  “Take a breath and calm down.  Your eyes aren’t seeing, okay?  That’s gotta be crazy weird.”  Steve groaned through clenched teeth, shutting his eyes tightly like he was trying to ward off the sensations.  That wasn’t going to work.  He doubled over, trembling and sweating.  “Steve, easy.  Come on.  Let me take them off, okay?  You’re okay.  Just let me–”

“No,” Steve gritted out.  “I can do this.”

Bucky shook his head.  “Steve–”

“I can do this!”

Tony looked horrified and worried beyond the pale.  He shared another glance with Bucky, not that Bucky knew what to do.  In their hesitation, though, Steve began to get control of himself, breathing heavily but more slowly.  He stared at the floor for what felt like forever, combating the vertigo, working through the nausea.  Everyone watched, paralyzed by hope and fear.

Then he slowly and very carefully looked up.  Through the glasses his sightless eyes never focused.  It was weird and a little disturbing.  Still, it became obvious that this was different now, that he knew _exactly_ who was in front of him.  “Tony,” he gasped, face wild with new exhilaration.  “Tony!”

Bucky glanced at the monitors, spotting Tony’s facial features in the feed going to Steve’s brain.  _Wow._ Steve smiled more, smiled widely, grasping for his friend.  “Tony!”

Tony smiled, too.  “Hey, Steve.”

“God, Tony,” Steve whimpered.  He hauled Tony against him, throwing his arms around him and sobbing openly into his shoulder. 

Tears shone in Tony’s eyes, too, as he hugged him back.  “Oh, thank God…  Thank God!”

“Tony…” Steve murmured.  “Thank you!  Thank you!”  Then he lifted his head again and spotted Sam.  He reached for him, too, tugging him in even though Tony was a bit smooshed between them.  Neither of them complained.  “Sam!  Sam, you’re right there!  _You’re right there!_ ”

“Yeah, I am,” Sam said with a laugh.  His cheeks were wet, his face scrunched with a huge grin.  “I take it it’s working?”

Steve nodded vigorously, his face alight in a way Bucky hadn’t ever seen before.  He was so joyous, so excited, so _blissful_ , that Bucky quickly decided it was among the most wonderful of things he’d ever had the joy and honor of witnessing.

And when Steve turned to him, his blue eyes yet empty behind those glasses, not focused…  He could still tell Steve was looking at him.  Steve was _looking_ at him.  He let go of Sam and Tony and got shakily back to his feet.  “Bucky,” he murmured, smiling through his tears.  “Buck.”

Bucky lifted his hands and cupped Steve’s damp cheeks.  “Yeah.”  His voice got caught up in his throat.  He wanted to say so many things.  _I’m here.  I’m yours.  I’m with you._

Steve seemed to understand it all.  He closed his eyes and leaned into his touch.  “I can see you,” he whispered.  “I can see you!”

_And you’re beautiful.  I love you._

Bucky pulled him close and kissed him as hard as he could.


	16. Chapter 16

A month passed like it was nothing.

Bucky could hardly believe how much things had changed.  As he walked down the Avengers complex heading towards the SHIELD command center, it suddenly struck him how different everything was.  He’d been so busy since Steve’s procedure that he really hadn’t had time to process any of it.  The time had been a blur of conversation, preparation, and transformation.  Now the sense of newness was so powerful that he just stopped in the gray corridor and took a moment.  Let himself feel.  The familiar heft of his metal arm.  The weight of Steve’s shield on his back.  The feel of his uniform, still so novel yet becoming more and more comfortable.  The pain of the past, tempering and molding, and the openness of the future.

The wonderful enormity of the present, of this new life he had.  It was wild and vibrant and crazy.  So crazy, with so much to do.

Like right now he was running late for lunch.  He started walking again, picking up the pace, heading down the hallways with his head high and with a purpose to his steps.  He passed people on his way, SHIELD agents and other personnel, and they nodded at him, respectful and deferent and maybe even in a little awe.  The fear and uncertainty he’d once caused with his mere presence was gone.  The Winter Soldier was _gone_ , absorbed into this new person, and this new person was more than the sum of his crimes and his attempts at absolution.  This new person was more than the acceptance of his teammates and the love of his husband.  This new person was more than Captain America even.  This new person had the courage to speak, the strength to fight, the certainty of what was moral and good and right.  This new person truly _belonged_.

He didn’t know how or why he was so fortunate, but through all of this, he’d been saved, just as Steve had been.

And Steve was waiting for him.  In no time at all, he found his way to his husband’s office, the path already so familiar though it had only been a few weeks that Steve had moved into it.  The door was partially ajar when he got there, and Steve was sitting there at the desk, surrounded by holographic displays and computers.  The room was huge, airy and open with the same sleek, modern décor as the rest of the complex, and windows were letting in bright light from the pretty, autumn day outside.  Steve was staring forward, his glasses on and tinted so the lenses were dark.  He was busy running his fingers over a Braille terminal, eyebrows furrowed as he read, and Bucky stood there outside for a moment, watching him.  He’d finally shaved since getting this new job, like he felt like he needed to look professional or some such.  He’d left his hair a little longer, though.  SHIELD had provided him a new uniform, one apparently rather reminiscent of the dark, navy blue stealth suit he’d had when he’d been a SHIELD operative.  The jacket had silver highlights, and the SHIELD logo as well as an Avengers patch sat proud on his arms.  The outfit was similar to military attire but more than just that.  It was unique and special, because Steve was Commander of SHIELD now.

That was pretty damn remarkable.

Dodger lifted his head with a quiet jingle from his dog tags where he sat at Steve’s feet under the glass surface of his desk.  Steve didn’t bother looking up.  “You’re late,” he commented.

Of course he’d know it was Bucky outside his door.  Bucky smiled, slipping inside the spacious office.  “Sorry.  Took longer than I thought it would.”

“PR stuff always does,” Steve said nonchalantly.  He gave up on what he was reading, swiping away all his work.  Though Tony’s glasses did an amazing job letting him see far more than he had, the fine detail of things like text on a page or screen were still far beyond its resolution and power at the moment.  Tony said he was working on it, pushing and redefining the capabilities of the tech he’d developed, but it would take time to overcome issues like these.  That was fine.  Steve was well and truly at peace with the situation.  Bucky could tell.  Ever since getting the glasses and the brace, since he’d taken Fury’s position and assumed control of SHIELD, since reclaiming even this modest part of the life he’d had…  He’d been calm the way he used to be.  Calm and firm in his own purpose.  He wasn’t Captain America anymore, no, but he was still powerful and necessary and important.  He was still the symbol he had been, the heart of this integral operation, the soul behind it.

Exactly as he should be.  Bucky didn’t think a universe could exist where Steve Rogers wasn’t doing everything he could to be a good man.

And there wasn’t a universe where Bucky wasn’t madly in love with him.  Through all this, all the fear and grief and pain, all the trampled hopes and changes and difficult recovery, he’d somehow fallen _more_ in love with him.  He hadn’t thought that possible, but it was.

“What’s that look on your face for?”

Bucky snapped from his thoughts.  “Hmm?  Oh, nothin’.”  He grinned.  He’d gotten used to the fact that Steve couldn’t see him, so every time Steve reminded him, it was so sweetly surprising.  “Just admirin’ you.”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head.  “Sap.”  He’d never been terribly proficient at hiding his blushes, and it was even worse now.  “How’d it go, anyway?”

Bucky grimaced a bit.  That the morning’s adventures at a children’s hospital down in Manhattan came to the forefront.  The PR circuit Steve had agreed to do for Fury months and months ago was finally getting done, only Steve wasn’t the one doing it.  Fury’s parting orders as Director of SHIELD had been to see that obligation fulfilled, so off Bucky had gone, terrified all the while.  He was making public appearances.  _Him._ He hadn’t even officially led the Avengers into battle yet as Captain America (thank God), and he was out bringing smiles to sick kids’ faces.  Not that he objected to that at all, but to have _him_ being the one to do? “Eh.  Alright, I guess.”

“Yeah?”  Steve stood from his chair, stretching and then grimacing when joints popped.  He got his leg working without much trouble.  Dodger came out from under the desk, nudging at Steve’s hands and legs before Steve leaned down for kisses.  Bucky grimaced at the dog’s tongue laving his husband’s face, hoping Steve washed up before they made time again, even if Steve kept telling him some tall tale about dog’s mouths being among the cleanest mouths on earth.  Then Dodger immediately took his position and waited to be harnessed.  Steve crouched again to do that after grabbing the gear from his desk.  “So you were a big hit then,” he surmised.

“The nurses weren’t sure.”

“But you won them over.”  Steve finished with Dodger’s harness.  It was much faster and easier now that he could see what he was doing.

Bucky shrugged.  He was suddenly acutely aware of the shield on his back.  “They didn’t throw me out on my ass, so yeah, I guess so.”

Steve nodded, pleased.  “And the kids?”

“They’re kids, Steve, and I came dressed as Captain America.”

“You _are_ Captain America,” Steve corrected with a soft smile, standing tall and pulling Dodger’s harness with him.  Dodger panted happily at his side, ready to go, and Steve’s grin was downright sunny.  Bucky couldn’t argue with him.  He had accepted everything enough _not_ to do that anymore.  He _was_ Captain America.  “Besides, I bet seeing Falcon and Thor helped win over any detractors.”

Fondly Bucky thought of that.  Sam and Thor had offered to come with him when they’d found out the enormity of the challenge ahead of him, and they’d been a huge source of support and comfort (and of excitement for the kids).  Thor and Falcon showing up unannounced had really made an already big event into a huge one, and Bucky smiled when he recalled the image of Thor carrying laughing kids around one-handed and Sam telling them all how they were the real heroes.  “Yeah.”

“So don’t worry so much.  It’s all good,” Steve declared.  The sun filling the room hit his back, wrapping around him in a warm glow.  “Now what do you want for lunch?”

Bucky just stared at him.  God, he was so beautiful.  His hair was thick and golden.  That uniform really looked good on him, and the dark blue of it made his eyes seem lighter by contrast.  Lighter and brighter and as gorgeous as ever.  They drew Bucky right in, same as always, and brought him home.

“Jeez, Barnes, what’s up with you?”

Bucky smiled, pulling away from his reverie languidly.  He took a step closer.  “Still admirin’ you.  This really suits you.”

Steve cocked an eyebrow, shaking his head.  “Yeah.”  He looked around his new office.  “Yeah, I think so.  Think I can make this work.”

“Sure, you can.  Told you you would.”

“Fury didn’t always do things the way I would’ve,” Steve said, turning to where there were pictures hung on the wall.  Howard Stark.  Colonel Phillips.  Peggy.  And now Nick Fury.  Steve had hung that one right away, the morning after they’d had a little going away party for Fury (which Fury himself had reluctantly attended).  No one was quite sure what he was doing now, though he’d claimed he was going to live the quiet life for a bit.  Travel.  Try settling down for a while.  As the team had bid him farewell (some fonder than others), Bucky figured they’d see him again before too long. 

Steve sighed, staring at his predecessor.  “But I know he did what he did to make the world safer.”

Bucky was long past blaming Fury – or anyone else – for what had happened.  Sometimes things just happened, for better or for worse.  His eyes went to Peggy, to her pretty face and wise eyes.  _Sometimes the best we can do is start over._ “Yeah.”

“Feels like big shoes to fill, though.”

 _Don’t I know what that’s like,_ Bucky thought, watching Steve as Steve stared at SHIELD’s previous leaders and founders.  “You can handle it.”

After a beat, Steve released another long breath and turned back to Bucky.  “Nothing lasts forever, I guess.”

The moment took Bucky back to months ago, to minutes before Steve had been hurt.  He didn’t know if Steve remembered that, if he remembered the sweet moment before everything had gone wrong.  Maybe he did.  His expression was knowing, comfortable, and Bucky grinned softly.  “Some things do,” he said, cocking an eyebrow.

Steve smiled too and leaned forward to kiss him.  Bucky grinned into his lips, putting his arms around Steve as the kiss quickly turned deeper and more passionate.  Steve dropped Dodger’s leash, pushing Bucky back, and they stumbled over to the edge of his desk, clumsily kissing and groping.  “Would it be wrong to christen this office?” Bucky husked as Steve nipped along his jaw to kiss at his ear.

“Doubt it,” Steve said, fumbling for Bucky’s uniform clasps.  “’sides, who’s gonna complain?  I’m the boss.”

Laughing lustfully, Bucky nudged him into his desk, pinning him there as he took control, ravishing Steve’s mouth and rolling his hips into his.  Steve groaned, grabbing Bucky’s hips and yanking them together, and Bucky started wondering about having each other for lunch rather than–

Steve’s computer beeped behind them.  “Commander?”  That was Hill, and the display came to life, winking with an incoming message.

Steve pulled away with a groan.  Bucky was still feasting on his neck, nibbling and licking and generally declaring what he thought of the interruption.  “Think we gotta answer,” Steve breathed, taking another long, deep kiss the second Bucky offered it. 

“Nope.”

“Buck!” Steve gasped as Bucky’s hand very boldly darted between his legs.  “Could be the end of the world!  Would be bad if we didn’t handle it, since, you know, it’s pretty much up to us.”

Bucky growled and lightly bit Steve’s lower lip.  “Stark’ll take care of it.  That’s why we have a chain of command.”

Steve rammed their lips together in a sloppy mess, and the computer beeped again.  He reached behind Bucky, fumbling at the terminal before tapping the button to receive the call.  With surprising lithe grace, he slipped away, and Bucky tipped his head back, aching and chuckling.  “Them’s the breaks, Barnes,” he said deviously.  Then he brought up the message.  “What is it, Maria?”

“We’ve got a serious situation out here that you should look at,” Hill answered.  “Seems like an army of robots is invading downtown Los Angeles.  AIM’s probably behind it.  You know, the usual stuff.  Mad scientist who wants money and fame.”  She seemed long-suffering.  “The team’s already coming in.”

Steve sighed, gathering himself.  “Alright.  On my way.”  He ended the communication.

Bucky groaned.  “Guess some things never change after all.”

A devious grin spread over Steve’s face as he walked back to where they’d been standing and grabbed Dodger’s leash.  “Aw, come on.  It’ll be fine.  Time to go be heroes, right?  Still you and me, love.  I lead, you follow.”

“I thought I was leading and you would follow,” Bucky said, pushing himself up and off the desk.

“Then lead,” Steve said as he reached the door.  “What could possibly go wrong?”

Were it not for the huge smile on Steve’s face, Bucky would have groaned in grief.  As it was, he just shook his head and folded his arms across his chest.  “You’re terrible.”

With that, Steve headed out.  Bucky stared a moment, warm with love and appreciation, before following.  It took just a few seconds for the two of them to briskly walk to the command center, which was adjacent to Steve’s office area.  Inside, dozens of SHIELD agents and techs were gathered at the long rows of consoles.  There was a massive series of screens in the center, and they were depicting exactly what Hill had described: an army (well, maybe army was something of an exaggeration, as there were only a few dozen) of robots.  With the amount of havoc they were clearly wreaking, it was a major problem.  Hill herself stood in the middle of it all with an earpiece nestled in her ear and her arms crossed over her SHIELD uniform.  “Sir,” she greeted.  Her sharp eyes flicked to Bucky.  “And Captain America was conveniently with you, I see.”

Bucky flushed with nervousness, but Steve didn’t blink at the jab at all.  “What’s the situation?”  He headed right over to the center of the room to stand beside her.  Even with his glasses, he couldn’t see the displays clearly, but he exuded calm confidence all the same, like he _knew_ what was there regardless.

Maria immediately compensated for him, smoothly explaining everything, the location and the expected number and nature of the robots and the civilians involved and the protection from local law enforcement.  As she did, Tony arrived.  Then Thor and Clint and Bruce.  Natasha and Sam.  The team gathered in the room, flanking their commander, and quickly the chatter turned sharp and professional as the situation was assessed and plans were made.  Advice was solicited and given.  Opinions were smart and practical.  Steve listened to them all.  His tactical mind had identified their resources, had first responders moving and beginning the evacuation, had police cordoning off the area, and he was already drawing up battle plans, already preparing to call in the rest of the team.

But he stopped and turned to Bucky.  He stared right at him from behind the clear lenses of his glasses, and his lips turned upward into a knowing smile.  “Call it, Buck.”

The team’s eyes shifted.  All of them.  It took Bucky a moment to realize they were all looking at him.  They were all waiting for him, deferring to him.  They needed him to make the final determination, and they wouldn’t go to battle without that.  All the sudden, this seemed to be his first decision, his first true act, as team leader.  His first orders.  He caught Sam’s steady gaze and Thor’s arms settling across his chest.  Natasha’s cool, calm expression and Clint’s cocked eyebrow and quirked lips.  Tony’s encouraging nod.

And Steve.  Steve’s bright, blue eyes were still on him, _always_ on him.  Seeing him.  Knowing him.  Believing in him and trusting him.  Loving him.  He could do this.  He was Captain America.

Captain America was a hero.

So Bucky opened his mouth, took a deep breath, found that strength and bravery and purpose, and said, “Avengers assemble.”

**THE END**


End file.
